RISSEfUC?
MAMMOTH
| BOOK STORE
248 TONCE ST
TORONTO
CAN.
THE
STOKES OF VENICE.
VOLUME THE SECOND.
BY JOH^T BUSKIN,
BONORARY STUDENT OP CHRIST CHURCH, AND SLADK PROFESSOR OP PINK ART, OXFORD
WITH ILLUSTRATIONa
NEW YORK:
JOHN WILEY AND SONS,
53 EAST TENTH STREET,
Second door west of Broadway.
1891.
£9* Carton (pre*»
171, 173 Macdougal Street, New York
SECOND, OR GOTHIC, PERIOD.
CHAPTER VI.
THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
§ i. IF the reader will look back to the division of our sub-
ject which was made in the first chapter of the first volume, he
will find that we are now about to enter upon the examination
of that school of Venetian architecture which forms an inter-
" mediate step between the Byzantine and Gothic forms ; but
which I find may be conveniently considered in its connexion
with the latter style. In order that we may discern the ten-
dency of each step of this change, it will be wise in the outset
to endeavor to form some general idea of its final result. We
know already what the Byzantine architecture is from which
the transition was made, but we ought to know something of
the Gothic architecture into which it led. I shall endeavor
therefore to give the reader in this chapter an idea, at once
broad and definite, of the true nature of Gothic architecture,
properly so called ; not of that of Venice only, but of univer-
sal Gothic : for it will be one of the most interesting parts of
our subsequent inquiry, to find out how far Venetian archi-
tecture reached the universal or perfect type of Gothic, and
how far it either fell short of it, or assumed foreign and inde-
pendent forms.
§ ii. The principal difficulty in doing this arises from the
fact that every building of the Gothic period differs in some
important respect from every, other ; and many ^include fea-
tures which, if they occurred in other buildings, would not be
152 SECOND PERIOD.
considered Gothic at all ; so that all we have to reason upon is
merely, if I may be allowed so to express it, a greater or less
degree of Gothicness in each building we examine. And it is
this Gothicness, — the character which, according as it is found
more or less in a building, makes it more or less Gothic, — of
which I want to define the nature ; and I feel the same kind
of difficulty in doing so which would be encountered by any
one who undertook to explain, for instance, the nature of Red-
ness, without any actual red thing to point to, but only orange
and purple things. Suppose he had only a piece of heather
and a dead oak-leaf to do it with. He might say, the color
which is mixed with the yellow in this oak-leaf, and with the
blue in this heather, would be red, if you had it separate ; but
it would be difficult, nevertheless, to make the abstraction per-
fectly intelligible : and it is so in a far greater degree to make
the abstraction of the Gothic character intelligible, because
that character itself is made up of many mingled ideas, and
,-can consist only in their union. That is to say, pointed arches
do not constitute Gothic, nor vaulted roofs, nor flying but-
tresses, nor grotesque sculptures ; but all or some of these
things, and many other things with them, when they come to-
gether so as to have life.
§ ra. Observe also, that, in the definition proposed, I shall
only endeavor to analyze the idea which I suppose already to
exist in the reader's mind. "We all have some notion, most of
us a very determined one, of the meaning of the term Gothic ;
but I know that many persons have this idea in their minds
without being able to define it : that is to say, understanding
generally that "Westminster Abbey is Gothic, and St. Paul's
is not, that Strasburg Cathedral is Gothic, and St. Peter's is
not, they have, nevertheless, no clear notion of what it is that
they recognize in the one or miss in the other, such as would
enable them to say how far the work at "Westminster or Stras-
burg is good and pure of its kind : still less to say of any non-
descript building, like St. James's Palace or "Windsor Castle,
how much right Gothic element there is in it, and how much
wanting. And I believe this inquiry to be a pleasant and prof-
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 153
itable one ; and that there will be found something more than
usually interesting in tracing out this grey, shadowy, many-
pinnacled image of the Gothic spirit within us ; and discerning
what fellowship there is between it and our Northern hearts.
And if, at any point of the inquiry, I should interfere with
any of the reader's previously formed conceptions, and use the
term Gothic in any sense which he would not willingly attach
to it, I do not ask him to accept, but only to examine and un-
derstand, my interpretation, as necessary to the intelligibility
of what follows in the rest of the work.
§ iv. We have, then, the Gothic character submitted to our
analysis, just as the rough mineral is submitted to that of the
chemist, entangled with many other foreign substances, itself
perhaps in no place pure, or. ever to be obtained or seen in
purity for more than an instant ; but nevertheless a thing of
definite and separate nature, however inextricable or confused
in appearance. Now observe : the chemist defines his mineral
by two separate kinds of character ; one external, its crystalline
form, hardness, lustre, &c. ; the other internal, the proportions
and nature of its constituent atoms. Exactly in the same
manner, we shall find that Gothic architecture has external
forms, and internal elements. Its elements are certain menta
tendencies of the builders, legibly expressed in it ; as fanciful
ness, love of variety, love of richness, and such others. Its
external forms are pointed arches, vaulted roofs, &c. And
unless both the elements and the forms are there, we have no
right to call the style Gothic. It is not enough that it has the
Form, if it have not also the power and life. It is not enough
that it has the Power, if it have not the form. We must there-
fore inquire into each of these characters successively ; and
determine first, what is the Mental Expression, and secondly,
what the Material Form, of Gothic architecture, properly so
laf JVTonfpl ^/^^ rw Expressio^. What characters, we
have to discover, did the~lrothic builders love, or instinctively
express in their work, as distinguished from all other builders ?
§ v. Let us go back for a moment to our chemistry, and
l-~>4 SECOND PERIOD.
note that, in defining a mineral by its constituent parts, it is
not one nor another of them, that can make up the mineral,
but the union of all: for instance, it is neither in charcoal, nor
in oxygen, nor in lime, that there is the making of chalk, but
in the combination of all three in certain measures ; they are
all found in very different things from chalk, and there is
nothing like chalk either in charcoal or in oxygen, but they are
nevertheless necessary to its existence.
So in the various mental characters which make up the soul
of Gothic. It is not one nor another that produces it ; but
their union in certain measures. Each one of them is found
in many other architectures besides Gothic ; but Gothic can-
not exist where they are not found, or, at least, where their
place is not in some way supplied. .Only there is this great
difference between the composition of the mineral, and of the
architectural style, that if we withdraw one of its elements
from the stone, its form is utterly changed, and its existence
as such and such a mineral is destroyed ; but if we withdraw
one of its mental elements from the Gothic style, it is only a
little less Gothic than it was before, and the union of two or
three of its elements is enough already to bestow a certain
Gothicness of character, which gains in intensity as we add the
others, and loses as we again withdraw them.
§ vi. I believe, then, that the characteristic or moral ele-
ments of Gothic are the following, placed in the order of their
importance :
1. Savageness.
2. Changefulness.
3. Naturalism.
5. Rigidity.
6. Redundance.
These characters are here expressed as b^onging to the
building ; as belonging to the builder, they would be expressed
thus: — 1. Savageness, or Rudeness. 2. JLove of Change. 3.
Love of Nature. ±. Disturbed Imagination. 5. Obstinacy.
''t. 8AVAGENESS. VI. THE XATUEE OF GOTHIC. 155
] 6. Generosity. And I repeat, that the withdrawal of any one,
or any two, will not at once destroy the Gothic character of a
building, but the removal of a majority of them will. I shall
proceed to examine them in their order.
§ vn. 1. SAVAGENESS. I am not sure when the word
" Gothic" was first generically applied to the architecture of the.
North ; but I presume that, whatever the date of its original
usage, it was intended to imply reproach, and express the bar-
baric character of the nations among whom that architecture
arose. It never implied that they were literally of Gothic
lineage, far less that their architecture had been originally in-
vented by the Goths themselves ; but it did imply that they
and their buildings together exhibited a degree, of sternness
and rudeness, which, in contradistinction to the character of
Southern and Eastern nations, appeared like a perpetual reflec-
tion of the contrast between the Goth and the Koman in their
first encounter. And when that fallen Roman, in the utmost
impotence of his luxury, and insolence of his guilt, became the
model for the imitation of civilized Europe, at the close of the
so-called Dark ages^the word Gothic became a term of unmiti-
gated-contempt, not unmixed with aversion. From that con-
tempt, by the exertion of the antiquaries and architects of this
century, Gothic architecture has been sufficiently vindicated ;
and perhaps some among us, in our admiration of the magnifi-
cent science of its structure, and sacredness of its expression,
might desire that the term of ancient reproach should be with-
drawn, and some other, of more apparent honorableness, adopt-
ed in its place. There is no chance, as there is no need, of such
a substitution. As far as the epithet was used scornfully, it
was used falsely ; but there is no reproach in the word, rightly
understood ; on the contrary, there is a profound truth, which
the instinct of mankind almost unconsciously recognizes. It
is true, greatly and deeply true, that the architecture of the
North is rude and wild ; but it is not true, that, for this reason,
we are to condemn it, or despise. Far otherwise : I believe it
is in this very character that it deserves our profoundest rever-
ence.
156 SECOND PEBIOD. I. SAVAGENE8S.
§ vm. The charts of the world which have been drawn Tip
by modern science have thrown into a narrow space the ex-
pression of a vast amount of knowledge, but I have never yet
seen any one pictorial enough to enable the spectator to imagine
the kind of contrast in physical character which exists between
Northern and Southern countries. We know the differences
in detail, but we have not that broad glance and grasp which
would enable us to feel them in their fulness. "We know that
gentians grow on the Alps, and olives on the Apennines ; but
we do not enough conceive for ourselves that variegated mosaic
of the world's surface which a bird sees in its migration, that
difference between the district of the gentian and of the olive
which the stork and the swallow see far off, as they lean upon
the sirocco wind. Let us, for a moment, try to raise ourselves
even above the level of their flight, and imagine the Mediterra-
nean lying beneath us like an irregular lake, and all its ancient
promontories sleeping in the sun : here and there an angry spot
of thunder, a grey stain of storm, moving upon the burning
field; and here and there a fixed wreath of white volcano
smoke, surrounded by its circle of ashes ; bwt for the most part
a great peacefulness of light, Syria and Greece, Italy and Spain,
laid like pieces of a golden pavement into the sea-blue, chased,
as we stoop nearer to them, with bossy beaten work of moun-
tain chains, and glowing softly with terraced gardens, and flow-
ers heavy with frankincense, mixed among masses of laurel, and
orange and plumy palm, that abate with their grey-green shad-
ows the burning of the marble rocks, and of the ledges of por-
phyry sloping under lucent sand. Then let us pass farther to-
wards the north, until we see the orient colors change gradually
into a vast belt of rainy green, where the pastures of Switzer-
land, and poplar valleys of France, and dark forests of the
Danube and Carpathians stretch from the mouths of the Loire
to those of the Yolga, seen through clefts in grey swirls of rain-
cloud and flaky veils of the mist of the brooks, spreading low
along the pasture lands : and then, farther north still, to see the
earth heave into 'mighty masses of leaden rock and heathy
inoor, bordering with a broad waste of gloomy purple that belt
I. PAVAGENE8S. VI. THE MATURE OF GOTHIC. 157
of field and wood, and splintering into irregular and grisly
islands amidst the northern seas, beaten by storm and chilled
by ice-drift, and tormented by furious pulses of contending
tide, until the roots of the last forests fail from among the hill
ravines, and the hunger of the north wind bites their peaks
into barrenness ; and, at last, the wall of ice, durable like iron,
sets, deathlike, its white teeth against us out of the polar
twilight. And, having once traversed in thought its grada-
tion of the zoned iris of the earth in all its material vastnees,
let us go down nearer to it, and watch the parallel change in
the belt of animal life : the multitudes of swift and brilliant
creatures that glance in the air and sea, or tread the sands of
the southern zone ; striped zebras and spotted leopards, glisten-
ing serpents, and birds arrayed in purple and scarlet. Let us
contrast their delicacy and brilliancy of color, and swiftness of
motion, with the frost-cramped strength, and shaggy covering,
and dusky plumage of the northern tribes ; contrast the Ara-
bian horse with the Shetland, the tiger and leopard with the
wolf and bear, the antelope with the elk, the bird of paradise
with the osprey : and then, submissively acknowledging the
great laws by which the earth and all that it bears are ruled
throughout their being, let us not condemn, but rejoice at the
expression by man of his own rest in the statutes of the lands
that gave him birth. Let us watch him with reverence as he
sets side by side the burning gems, and smoothes with soft
sculpture the jasper pillars, that are to reflect a ceaseless sun-
shine, and rise into a cloudless sky : but not with less rever-
ence let us stand by him, when, with rough strength and hur-
ried stroke, he smites an uncouth animation out of the rocks
which he has torn from among the moss of the moorland, and
heaves into the darkened air the pile of iron buttress and rug-
ged wall, instinct with work of an imagination as wild and
wayward as the northern sea ; creations of ungainly shape and
rigid limb, but full of wolfish life ; fierce as the winds that
beat, and changeful as the clouds that shade them.
There is, I repeat, no degradation, no reproach in this, but
all dignity and honorableness ; and we should err grievously in
158 SECOITD PERIOD. I. SAVAGENES3.
refusing either to recognise as an essential character of the ex-
isting architecture of the North, or to admit as a desirable char-
acter in that which it yet may be, this wildness of thought,
and roughness of work ; this look of mountain brotherhood
between the cathedral and the Alp ; this magnificence of sturdy
power, put forth only the more energetically because the fine
finger-touch was chilled away by the frosty wind, and the eye
dimmed by the moor-mist, or blinded by the hail ; this out-
speaking of the strong spirit of men who may not gather re-
dundant fruitage from the earth, nor bask in dreamy benignity
of sunshine, but must break the rock for bread, and cleave the
forest for fire, and show, even in what they did for their de-
light, some of the hard habits of the arm and heart that grew
on them as they swung the axe or pressed the plough.
§ ix. If, however, the savageness of Gothic architecture,
merely as an expression of its origin among Northern nations,
may be considered, in some sort, a noble character, it possesses
a higher nobility still, when considered as an index, not of cli-
mate, but of religious principle.
In the 13th and 14th paragraphs of Chapter XXI. of the
first volume of this work, it was noticed that the systems of ar-
chitectural ornament, properly so called, might be divided into
three : — 1. Servile ornament, in which the execution or power
of the inferior workman is entirely subjected to the intellect of
the higher : — 2. Constitutional ornament, in which the execu-
tive inferior power is, to a certain point, emancipated and in-
dependent, having a will of its own, yet confessing its inferi-
ority and rendering obedience to higher powers ; — and 3.
Revolutionary ornament, in which no executive inferiority is
admitted at all. I must here explain the nature of these di-
visions at somewhat greater length.
Of Servile ornament, the principal schools are the Greek,
Ninevite, and Egyptian ; but their servility is of different kinds.
The Greek master-workman was far advanced in knowledge
and power above the Assyrian or Egyptian. Neither he nor
those for whom he worked could endure the appearance of
imperfection in anything; and, therefore, what ornament he'
I. BAVAGENE6S. VI. THE NATUKE OF GOTHIC. 159
appointed to be done by those beneath him was composed of
mere geometrical forms,— balls, ridges, and perfectly symmet-
rical foliage, — which could be executed with absolute precision
by line and rule, and were as perfect in their way when com-
pleted, as his own figure sculpture. The Assyrian and Egyp-
tian, on the contrary, less cognizant of accurate form in any-
thing, were content to allow their figure sculpture to be exe^
cuted by inferior workmen, but lowered the method of its
treatment to a standard which every workman could reach, and
then trained him by discipline so rigid, that there was no chance
of his falling beneath the standard appointed. The Greek gave
to the lower workman no subject which he could not perfectly
execute. The Assyrian gave him subjects which he could only
execute imperfectly, but fixed a legal standard for his imper-
fection. The workman was, in both systems, a slave.*
§ x. But in the mediaeval, or especially Christian, system of
1 ornament, this slavery is done away with altogether ; Chris-
tianity having recognized, in small things as well as great, the
individual value of every soul. But it not only recognizes its
value ; it confesses its imperfection, in only bestowing dignity
upon the acknowledgment of unworthiness. That admission
of lost power and fallen nature, which the Greek or Nmevite
felt to be intensely painful, and, as far as might be, altogether
refused, the Christian makes daily and hourly, contemplating
the fact of it without fear, as tending, in the end, to God's
greater glory. Therefore, to every spirit which Christianity
summons to her service, her exhortation is: Do what you can,
and confess frankly what you are unable to do ; neither let
your effort be shortened for fear of failure, nor your confession
* The third kind of ornament, the Renaissance, is that, in which the in- i
ferior detail becomes principal, the executor of every minor portion being .
required to exhibit skill and possess knowledge as great as that which is 1
possessed by the master of the design ; and in the endeavor to endow him.
with this skill and knowledge, his own original power is overwhelmed, and
the whole building becomes a wearisome exhibition of well-educated imbe
cility. We must fully inquire into the nature of this form of error, when
we arrive at the examination of the Renaissance schools.
1GO
SECOND PEBIOD.
I. SAVAGENESS,
silenced for fear of shame. And it is, perhaps, the principal
admirableness of the Gothic schools of architecture, that they
thus receive the results of the labor of inferior minds ; and out
of fragments full of imperfection, and betraying that imper-
fection in every touch, indulgently raise up a stately and unac-
cusable whole:
§ xi. But the modern English mind has this much in com-
mon with that of the Greek, that it intensely desires, in all
things, the utmost completion or perfection compatible with
their nature. This is a noble character in the abstract, but
becomes ignoble when it causes us to forget the relative dig-
nities of that nature itself, and to prefer the perfectness of the
lower nature to the imperfection of the higher ; not consider-
ing that as, judged by such a rule, all the brjite animals would
be preferable to man, because more perfect in their functions
and kind, and yet are always held inferior to him, so also in
the works of man, those which are more perfect in their kind
are always inferior to those which are, in their nature, liable to
more faults and shortcomings. For the finer the nature, the
more flaws it will show through the clearness of it ; and it is a
law of this universe, that the best things shall be seldomest
seen in their best form. The wild grass grows well and
strongly, one year with another ; but the wheat is, according
to the greater nobleness of its nature, liable
blight j/ And 'therefore, while in all things that we see, or do,
we are to desire perfection, and strive for it, we are neverthe-
less not to set the meaner thing, in its narrow accomplishment)
above the nobler thing, in its mighty progress ; not to esteem
smooth minuteness above shattered majesty ; not to prefer
mean victory to honorable defeat ; not to lower the level of!
our aim, that we may the more surely enjoy the complacency^
of success. But, above all, in our dealings with the souls of
other men, we are to take care how we check, by severe re-
quirement or narrow caution, efforts which might otherwise
lead to a noble issue ; and, still more, how we withhold our
admiration from great excellences, because they are minglei]/
with rough f aults, ^fl^ow, in the make and nature of every
I. SAVAGENESS. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 161
man, however rude or simple, whom we employ in manual
labor, there are some powers for better things: some tardy
imagination, torpid capacity of emotion, tottering steps of
thought, there are, even at the worst ; and in most cases it is
all our own fault that they are tardy or torpid. But they can-
not be strengthened, unless we are content to take them in
their feebleness, and unless we prize and honor them in their
imperfection above the best and most perfect manual skill.
And this is what we have to do with all our laborers; to
look for the thoughtful part of them, and get that out of
them, whatever we lose for it, whatever faults and errors
we are obliged to take with it. For the best that is in them
cannot manifest itself, but in company with much error.
Understand this clearly: You can teach a man to draw a
straight line, and to cut one ; to strike a curved line, and to
carve it ; and to copy and carve any number of given lines
or forms, with admirable speed and perfect precision; and
you find his work perfect of its kind : but if you ask him to
think about any of those forms, to consider if he cannot find
any better in his own head, he stops ; his execution becomes I
hesitating ; he thinks, and ten to one he thinks wrong ; ten I
to one he makes a mistake in the first touch he gives to his \
work as a thinking being. But you have made a man of him I I
for all that. He was only a machine before, an animated » &
tool.
§ xii. And observe, you are put to stern choice in this
matter. You must either made a tool of the creature, or a
man of him. You cannot make both. Men were not intended
to work with the accuracy of tools, to be precise and perfect
in all their actions. If you will have that precision out of
them, and make their fingers measure degrees like cog-wheels,
and their arms strike curves like compasses, you must un-
humanize them. All the energy of their spirits must be given
to make cogs and compasses of themselves. All their atten-
tion and strength must go to the accomplishment of the mean
act. The eye of the soul must be bent upon the finger-point,
and the soul's force must fill all the invisible nerves that guide
162 SECOND PERIOD. I. BAVAGENESS.
it, ten hours a day, that it may not err from its steely pre-
cision, and so soul and sight • be worn away, and the whole
human being be lost at last — a heap of sawdust, so far as its
intellectual work in this world is concerned ; saved only by
its Heart, which cannot go into the form of cogs and com-
passes, but expands, after the ten hours are over, into fireside
humanity. On the other hand, if you will make a man of
the working creature, you cannot make a tool. Let him but
begin to imagine, to think, to try to do anything worth do-
ing ; and the engine-turned precision is lost at once. Out
come all his roughness, all his dulness, all his incapability;
shame upon shame, failure upon failure, pause after pause :
but out comes the whole majesty of him also ; and we know
the height of it only, when we see the clouds settling upon
him. And, whether the clouds be bright or dark, there will
be transfiguration behind and within them.
§ xni. And now, reader, look round this English room of
yours, about which you have been proud so often, because the
work of it was so good and strong, and the ornaments of it
so finished. Examine again all those accurate mouldings, and
perfect polishings, and unerring adjustments of the seasoned
wood and tempered steel. Many a time you have exulted
over them, and thought how great England was, because her
slightest work was done so thoroughly. Alas ! if read rightly,
these perfectnesses are signs of a slavery in our England a
thousand times more bitter and more degrading than that of
the scourged African, or helot Greek. Men may be beaten,
chained, tormented, yoked like cattle, slaughtered like summer
flies, and yet remain in one sense, and the best sense, free.
But to smother their souls jvithin them, to blight and hew into
rotting pollards the suckling branches of their human intelli-
gence, to make the flesh and skin which, after the worm's
work on it, is to see God, into leathern thongs to yoke ma-
chinery with,— this it is to be slave-masters- indeed ; and there
might be more freedom in England, though her feudal lords'
lightest words were worth men's lives, and though the blood
of the vexed husbandman dropped in the furrows of her fields.
7. SAVAGENE88. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 1G3
than there is while the animation of her multitudes is sent
like fuel to feed the factory smoke, and the strength of them
is given daily to be wasted into the fineness of a web, or racked
into the exactness of a line.
§ xiv. And, on the other hand, go forth again to gaze upon
the old cathedral front, where you have smiled so often at the
fantastic ignorance of the old sculptors : examine once more
those ugly goblins, and formless monsters, and stern statues,
anatomiless and rigid ; but do not mock at them, for they are
signs of the life and liberty of every workman who struck the
stone ; a freedom of thought, and rank in scale of being, such
as no laws, no charters, no charities can secure ; but which it
must be the first aim of all Europe at this day to regain for
her children.
§ xv. Let me not be thought to speak wildly or extrava-
gantly. It is verily this degradation of the operative into a,
machine, which, more than any other evil of the times, is lead-
ing the mass of the nations everywhere into vain, incoherent,
destructive struggling for a freedom of which they cannot ex-
plain the nature to themselves. Their universal outcry against
wealth, and against nobility, is not forced from them either
by the pressure of famine, or the sting of mortified pride.
These do much, and have done much in all ages ; but the
foundations of society were never yet shaken as they are at this
day. It is not that men are ill fed, but that they have no
pleasure in the work by which they make their bread, and
therefore look to wealth as the only means of pleasure. It is
not that men are pained by the scorn of the upper classes, but
they cannot endure their own ; for they feel that the kind of
labor to which they are condemned is verily a degrading one,
and makes them less than men. Never had the upper classes
so much sympathy with the lower, or charity for them, as they
have at this day, and yet never were they so much hated by
them : for, of old, the separation between the noble and the
poor was merely a wall built by law ; now it is a veritable
difference in level of standing, a precipice between upper and
lower grounds in the field of humanity, and there is pestilential
1(J4 SECOND PERIOD. I. BAVAGENE8S.
air at the bottom of it. I know not if a day is ever to come
when the nature of right freedom will be understood, and
when men will see that to obey another man, to labor for him,
yield reverence to him or to his place,, is not slavery. It is
often the best kind of liberty,— liberty from care. The man
who says to one, Go, and he goeth, and to another, Come, and
he cometh, has, in most cases, more sense of restraint and
difficulty than the man who obeys him. The movements of
the one are hindered by the burden on his shoulder ; of the
other, by the bridle on his lips : there is no way by which the
burden may be lightened ; but we need not suffer from the
bridle if we do not champ at it. To yield reverence to another,
to hold ourselves and our lives at his disposal, is not slavery ;
often, it is the noblest state in which a man can live in this
world. There is, indeed, a reverence which is servile, that is
to say, irrational or selfish : but there is also noble reverence, that
is to say, reasonable and loving ; and a man is never so noble as
when he is reverent in this kind ; nay, even if the feeling pass
the bounds of mere reason, so that it be loving, a man is raised
by it. Which had, in reality, most of the serf nature in him,
— the Irish peasant who was lying in wait yesterday for his
landlord, with his musket muzzle thrust through the ragged
hedge ; or that old mountain servant, who, 200 years ago, at
Inverkeithing, gave up his own life and the lives of his seven
sons for his chief ? *— and as each fell, calling forth his brother
to the death, " Another for Hector !" And therefore, in all
ages and all countries, reverence has been paid and sacrifice
made by men to each other, not only without complaint, but
rejoicingly ; and famine, and peril, and sword, and all evil, and
all shame, have been borne » willingly in the causes of masters
and kings ; for all these gifts of the heart ennobled the men
who gave, not less than the men who received them, and na-
ture prompted, and God rewarded the sacrifice. But to feel
their souls withering within them, unthanked, to find their
whole being sunk into an unrecognized abyss, to be counted off
* Vide Preface to "Fair Maid of Perth."
T. 8AVAGENE88. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 165
into a heap of mechanism, numbered with its wheels, and
weighed with its hammer strokes ; — this nature bade not, — this
God blesses not, — this humanity for no long time is able to
endure.
§ xvi. "We have much studied and much perfected, of late,
the great civilized invention of the division of labor ; only we
give it a false name. It is not, truly speaking, the labor that
is divided ; but the men : — Divided into mere segments of men
— broken into small fragments and crumbs of life ; so that all
the little piece of intelligence that is left in a man is not enough
to make a pin, or a nail, but exhausts itself in making the point
of a pin, or the head of a nail. Now it is a good and desirable
thing, truly, to make many pins in a day ; but if we could
only see with what crystal sand their points were polished, —
sand of human soul, much to be magnified before it can be
discerned for what it is, — we should think there might be
some loss in it also. And the great cry that rises from all our
manufacturing cities, louder than their furnace blast, is all in
very deed for this, — that we manufacture everything there
except men ; we blanch cotton, and strengthen steel, and refine
sugar, and shape pottery ; but to brighten, to strengthen, to
refine, or to form a single living spirit, never enters into our
estimate of advantages. And all the evil to which that cry is
urging our myriads can be met only in one way : not by teach-
ing nor preaching, for to teach them is but to show them their
misery, and to preach to them, if we do nothing more than
preach, is to mock at it. It can be met only by a right under-
standing, on the part of all classes, of what kinds of labor are
good for men, raising them, and making them happy ; by a de-
termined sacrifice of such convenience, or beauty, or cheapness
as is to be got only by the degradation of the workman ; and
by equally determined demand for the products and results of
healthy and ennobling labor.
§ xvn. And how, it will be asked, are these products to be
recognized, and this demand to be regulated ? Easily : by the
observance. of three broad and simple rules :
1. Never encourage the manufacture of any article not
iot|
166 SECOND PERIOD.
absolutely necessary, in the production of which Invention has
no share.
2. Never demand an exact finish for its own sake, but only
for some practical or noble end.
3. Never encourage imitation or copying of any kind, ex-
cept for the sake of preserving record of great works.
The second of these principles is the only one which directly
rises out of the consideration of our immediate subject ; but I
shall briefly explain the meaning and extent of the first also,
reserving the enforcement of the third for another place.
1. Never encourage the manufacture of anything not neces-
sary, in the production of which invention has no share.
For instance. Glass beads are utterly unnecessary, and
there is no design or thought employed in their manufacture.
They are formed by first drawing out the glass into rods ;
these rods are chopped up into fragments of the size of beads
by the human hand, and the fragments are then rounded in
the furnace. The men who chop up the rods sit at their work
all day, their hands vibrating with a perpetual and exquisitely
timed palsy, and the beads dropping beneath their vibration
S / like hail. Neither they, nor the men who draw out the rods,
r^f "\ or fuse the fragments, have the smallest occasion for the use of
any single human faculty ; and every young lady, therefore,
who buys glass beads is engaged in the slave-trade, and in a
much more cruel one than that which we have so long been
\ endeavoring to put down.
But glass cups and vessels may become the subjects of
exquisite invention ; and if in buying these we pay for the in-
vention, that is to say for the beautiful form, or color, or
engraving, and not for mere finish of execution, we are doing
good to humanity.
§ xvm. So, again, the cutting of precious stones, in all ordi-
nary cases, requires little exertion of any mental faculty ; some
tact and judgment in avoiding flaws, and so on, but nothing to
bring out the whole mind. Every person who wears cut jewels
merely for the sake of their value is, therefore, a slave-driver.
But the working of the goldsmith, and the various desigu-
L SAVAGENESS. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 167
ing of grouped jewellery and enamel- work, may become the
subject of the most noble human intelligence. Therefore,
money spent in the purchase of well-designed plate, of precious
engraved vases, cameos, or enamels, does good to humanity ;
and, in work of this kind, jewels may be employed to heighten
its splendor ; and their cutting is then a price paid for the
attainment of a noble end, and thus perfectly allowable.
§ xix. I shall perhaps press this law farther elsewhere, but
our immediate concern is chiefly with the second, namely, never
to demand an exact finish, when it doel" n"bt le'acTto a noble
end. For observe, I have only dwelt upon the rudeness of
Gothic, or any other kind of imperfectness, as admirable, whe:
it was impossible to get design or thought without it. If yo
are to have the thought of a rough and untaught man, you
must have it in a rough and untaught way ; but from an edu-
cated man, who can without effort express his thoughts in an
educated way, take the graceful expression, and be thankful.
Only get the thought, and do not silence the peasant because
he cannot speak good grammar, or until you have taught him
his grammar. Grammar and refinement are good things, both,
only be sure of the better thing first. And thus in art, deli-
cate finish is desirable from the greatest masters, and is always
given by them. In some places Michael Angelo, Leonardo,
Phidias, Perugino, Turner, all finished with the most exquisite
care ; and the finish they give always leads to the fuller accom-
plishment of their noble purposes. But lower men than these
cannot finish, for it requires consummate knowledge to finish
consummately, and then we must take their thoughts as they
are able to give them. So the rule is simple : Always look for
t, and after that, for such execution as will he"lp
the invention, and as the inventor is capable of without pain-
ful effort, and no more. Above all, demand no refinement of
execution where there is no thought, for that is slaves' work,
unredeemed. Rather choose rough work than smooth work, so
only that the practical purpose be answered, and never imagine
there is reason to be proud of anything that may be accom-
plished by patience and sandpaper.
1C8 £ SECOND PERIOD. I. BAVAGENE6S.
§ xx. I shall omy give one example, which however will
show the reader whMJ mean, from the manufacture already
alluded to, that of gllfcte Our modern glass is exquisitely clear
in its substance, true Mfits form, accurate in its cutting. "We
are proud of this. We ought to be ashamed of it. The old
Venice glas/ was muddy, inaccurate in all its forms, and
clumsily cut, if at all. And the old Venetian was justly proud
of it. For there is this difference between the English and
Venetian workman, that the former thinks only of accurately
matching his patterns, and getting his curves perfectly true
and his edges perfectly sharp, and becomes a mere machine
for rounding curves and sharpening edges, while the old Vene-
tian cared not a whit whether his edges were sharp or not, but
he invented a new design for every glass that he made, and
never moulded a handle or a lip without a new fancy in it.
And therefore, though some Venetian glass is ugly and clumsy
enough, when made by clumsy and uninventive workmen,
other Venetian glass is so lovely in its forms that no price is
too great for it ; and we never see the same form in it twice.
Now you cannot have the finish and the varied form too. If
the workman is thinking about his edges, he cannot be think-
ing of his design; if of his design, he cannot think of his
edges. Choose whether you will pay for the lovely form or
the perfect finish, and choose at the same moment whether
you will make the worker a man or a grindstone.
§ xxi. Nay, but the reader interrupts me, — " If the work-
man can design beautifully, I would not have him kept at the
furnace. Let him be taken away and made a gentleman, and
have a studio, and design his glass there, and I will have it
blown and cut for him by common workmen, and so I will
have my design and my finish too."
All ideas of this kind are founded upon two mistaken sup-
positions : the first, that one man's thoughts can be, or ought to
be, executed by another man's hands ; the second, that manual
labor is a degradation, when it is governed by intellect.
On a large scale, and in work determinable by line and
rule, it is indeed both possible and necessary that the thoughts
I. SAVAGEKESS. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 100
of one man should be carried out by the labor of others; in
this sense I have already defined the best architecture to be
the expression of the mind of manhood by the hands of child-
hood. But on a smaller scale, and in a design which cannot
be mathematically defined, one man's thoughts can never be
expressed by another : and the difference between the spirit of
touch of the man who is inventing, and of the man who is
obeying directions, is often all the difference between a great
and a common work of art. How wide the separation is
between original and second-hand execution, I shall endeavor
to show elsewhere ; it is not so much to our purpose here as
to mark the other and more fatal error of despising manual
labor when governed by intellect ; for it is no less fatal an
error to despise it when thus regulated by intellect, than to
value it for its own sake. We are always in these days
endeavoring to separate the two ; we want one man to be
always thinking, and another to be always working, and we call
one a gentleman, and the other an operative ; whereas the
workman ought often to be thinking, and the thinker often to
be working, and both should be gentlemen, in the best sense.
As it is, we make both ungentle, the one envying, the other
despising, his brother ; and the mass of society is made up of
morbid thinkers, and miserable workers. Now it is only by
labor that thought can be made healthy, and only by thought
that labor can be made happy, and the two cannot be separated
with impunity. It would be well if all of us were good handi-
craftsmen in some kind, and the dishonor of manual labor
done away with altogether ; so that though there should still
be a trenchant distinction of race between nobles and com-
moners, there should not, among the latter, be a trenchant dis-
tinction of employment, as between idle and working men, or
between men of liberal and illiberal professions. All profes-
sions should be liberal, and there should be less pride felt in
peculiarity of employment, and more in excellence of achieve-
ment. And yet more, in each several profession, no master
should be too proud to do its hardest work. The painter
should grind his own colors ; the architect work in the mason's
170 SECOND PERIOD. I. SAVAGEXE88.
yard with his men; the master-manufacturer be himself a
more skilful operative than any man in his mills ; and the dis-
tinction between one man and another be only in experience
and skill, and the authority and wealth which these must
naturally and justly obtain.
§ xxn. I should be led far from the matter in hand, if I
were to pursue this interesting subject. Enough, I trust, has
been said to show the reader that the rudeness or imperfection
which at first rendered the term " Gothic" one of reproach is
indeed, when rightly understood, one of the most noble charac-
ters of Christian architecture, and not only a noble but an
essential one/ It seems a fantastic paradox, but it is neverthe- \
less a most important truth, that no architecture can be truljo'
Inoble which is hot imperfect.J"And this is easily demonstrable.
sluceTIie architect, whom we will suppose capable of
doing all in perfection, cannot execute the whole with his own
hands, he must either make slaves of his workmen in the old
Greek, and present English fashion, and level his work to a
slave's capacities, which is to degrade it ; or else he must take
his workmen as he finds them, and let them show their weak-
nesses together with their strength, which will involve the
Gothic imperfection, but render the whole work as noble as
the intellect of the age can make it.
§ xxm. But the principle may be stated more broadly still.
I have confined the illustration of it to architecture, but I must
not leave it as if true of architecture only. Hitherto I have
used the words imperfect and perfect merely to distinguish be-
tween work grossly unskilful, and work executed with average
precision and science ; and I have been pleading that any
degree of unskilfulness sho,uld be admitted, so only that tlje
laborer's mind hadroprnf or p.-sprgssjnn But, accurately speak-
' /ing, no good work whatever can be perfect, and the demand
for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the
ends of art.
This for two Reasons., both based on everlasting
laws, /pie firsfo that no great man ever stops working till he
has reacBed his point of failure ; that is to say, his mind is v
I. SAVAGENESS. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
always far in advance of his powers of execution, and the
latter will now and then give way in trying to follow it;
besides that he will always give to the inferior portions of
work only such inferior attention asLJhey reauir&-^fllT3 accord^"
lEohis greatness lie becomes so accustomed to the feeling of
dissatisfaction with the best he can do, that in moments of
lassitude or anger with himself lie W1'1| JBpt care though the
.beholder be dissatisfied a]&gC/T. believe there nas only been one
inan~wlio would not acknowledge this necessity, and strove
always to reach perfection, Leonardo ; the end of his vain
effort being merely that he would take ten years to a picture,
and leave it unfinished. And therefore, if we are to have
great men working at all, or less men doing their best, the
; work will be imperfect, however beautiful. Of human work
inone but what is bad can be perfect, in its own bad way.*
§ xxv. The second reason is, that imperfection is in some
sort essential to all that we know of life. It is the sign of life
y'n a mnrta.1 fro<tyr that ia to say? of a state of progressand
change. Nothing that lives is, or can be, rigidly perfect ; part
oi iiTis decaying, part nascent. The foxglove blossom, — a
third part bud, a third part past, a third part in full bloom, —
is a type of the life of this world. And in all things that live
there are certainirregularities and deficiencies which are not
only signs of life, but sources of beauty. No human face is
exactly the samcTin its ImelToh "each side, no leaf perfect in its
lobes, no branch in its symmetiy. All admit irregularity as
they imply change ; and to banish imperfection is to destroy
expression, to check exertion, to paralyse vitality. All things
are literally better, lovelier, and more beloved for the imper-
fections which have been divinely appointed ; that the law of
human life may be Effort, and the law of human judgment,
Mercy.
Accept this then for a universal law, that neither architec-
* The Elgin marbles are supposed by many persons to be " perfect." In
the most important portions they indeed approach perfection, but only
there. The draperies are unfinished, the hair and wool of the animals are
jinfinished, and the entire bas-reliefs of the frieze are roughly cut.
172 SECOND PERIOD. II. CHANG EFTTLNESS.
ture nor any other noble work of man can be good unless it
be imperfect ; and let us be prepared for the otherwise strange
fact, which we shall discern clearly as we approach the period
of the Renaissance, that the first cause of the fall of the arts
of Europe was a relentless requirement of perfection, incapable
alike either of being silenced by veneration for greatness, or
softened into forgiveness of simplicity.
Thus far then of the Rudeness or Savageness, which is the
first mental element of Gothic architecture. It is an element
in many other healthy architectures also, as in Byzantine and
Romanesque ; but true Gothic cannot exist without it.
§ xxvi. The second mental element above named was
HANGEFULNESS, or Variety.
I have already enforced the allowing independent operation
to the inferior workman, simply as a duty to him, and as env
nobling the architecture by rendering it more Christian. We
have now to consider what reward we obtain for the perform^
ance of this duty, namely, the perpetual variety of every
feature of the building.
"Wherever the workman is utterly enslaved, the parts of the
building must of course be absolutely like each other ; for the
perfection of his execution can only be reached by exercising
him in doing one thing, and giving him nothing else to do.
The degree in which the workman is degraded may be thus
known at a glance, by observing whether the several parts of
the building are similar or not ; and if, as in Greek work, all
the capitals are alike, and all the mouldings unvaried, then the
degradation is complete ; if, as in Egyptian or Ninevite work,
though the manner of executing certain figures, is always the
same, the order of design is perpetually varied, the degradation
1 1 is less total ; if, as in Gotnic work, there is perpetual change
lu both in design and execution, the workman must have been
f altogether set free.
§ xxvn. How much the beholder gains from the liberty of
the laborer may perhaps be questioned in England, where one
of the strongest instincts in nearly every mind is that Love of
Order which makes us desire that our house windows should
IT. CIIANGEFULNESS. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 173
pair like our carriage horses, and allows us to yield our faitli
unhesitatingly to architectural theories which fix a form for
everything and forbid variation from it. I would not impeach .
love aLaedfii^it is one of the most useful elements of the]
•^^^^^*^
English mind ; it helps us in our commerce and in all purely |
practical matters ; and it is in many cases one of the founda-
tion stones of morality. Only do not let us suppose that love
of order is love of a'rt. It is true that order, in its highest
sense, is one of the necessities of art, just as time is a necessity
of music ; but love of order has no more to do with our right
enjoyment of architecture or painting, than love of .punctuality
with the appreciation of an opera. Experience, I fear, teaches
us that accurate and methodical habits in daily life are seldom
characteristic of those who either quickly perceive, or richly
possess, the creative powers of art ; there is, however, nothing
inconsistent between the two instincts, and nothing to hinder
us from retaining our business habits, and yet fully allowing
and enjoying the noblest gifts of Invention. We already do
so, in every other branch of art except architecture, and we
only do not so there because we have been taught that it would
be wrong. Our architects gravely inform us that, as there are
four rules of arithmetic, there are five orders of architecture ;
we, in our simplicity, think that this sounds consistent, and
believe them. Tliey inform us also that there is one proper
form for Corinthian capitals, another for Doric, and another for
Ionic. We, considering that there is also a proper form for the
letters A, B, and C, think that this also sounds consistent, and
accept the proposition. Understanding, therefore, that one
form of the said capitals is proper, and no other, and having a
conscientious horror of all impropriety, we allow the architect
to provide us with the said capitals, of the proper form, in such
and such a quantity, and in all other points to take care that
the legal forms are observed ; which having done, we rest in
forced confidence that we are well housed.
§ xxvin. But our higher instincts are not deceived. We
take no pleasure in the building provided for us, resembling
that which we take in a new book or a new picture. We may
.
C
••
y
174 SECOND PERIOD. n. CHANGEFULNESa
be proud of its size, complacent in its correctness, and happy
in its convenience. We may take the same pleasure in its
symmetry and workmanship as in a well-ordered room, or a
skilful piece of manufacture. And this we suppose to be all
the pleasure that architecture was ever intended to give us.
The idea of reading a building as we would read Milton or
Dante, and getting the same kind of delight out of the stones
as out of the stanzas, never enters our minds for a moment.
And for good reason : — There is indeed rhythm in the verses,
quite as strict as the symmetries or rhythm of the architecture,
and a thousand times more beautiful, but there is something
else than rhythm. The verses were neither made to order, nor
\<&r\ to match, as the capitals were ; and we have therefore a kind
of pleasure in them other than a sense of propriety. But it
requires a strong effort of common sense to shake ourselves
quit of all that we have been taught for the last two centuries,
and wake to the perception of a truth just as simple and cer-
tain as it is new : that great art, whether expressing itself in
words, colors, or stones, does not say the same thing over and
over again ; that the merit of architectural, as of evqry other
/ art, consists in its saying new and different things ; that to
k\ /I repeat itself is no more a characteristic of genius in marble
' | than it is of genius in print ; and that we may, without offend-
ing any laws of good taste, require of an architect, as we do of
a novelist, that he should be not only correct, but entertaining.
Yet all this is true, and self-evident ; only hidden from us,
as many other self-evident things are, by false teaching. Noth-
ing is a great work of art, for the production of which either
rules or models can be given. Exactly so far as architecture
works on known rules, and from given models, it is not an art,
but a manufacture ; and it is, of the two procedures, rather
less rational (because more easy) to copy capitals or mouldings
from Phidias, and call ourselves architects, than to copy heads
and hands from Titian, and call ourselves painters.
§ xxix. Let us then understand at once, that change or
variety is as much a necessity to the human heart and brain
in buildings as in books ; that there is no merit, though there
II. CHANGEFTJLNESS. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 175
is some occasional use, in monotony ; and that we must no
more expect to derive either pleasure or profit from an archi-
tecture whose ornaments are of one pattern, and whose pillars
are of one proportion, than we should out of a universe in
which the clouds were all of one shape, and the trees all of
one size.
§ xxx. And this we confess in deeds, though not in words.
All the pleasure which the people of the nineteenth century
take in art, is in pictures, sculpture, minor objects of virtu, or
mediaeval architecture, which we enjoy under, the term pictu-
resque : no pleasure is taken anywhere in modern buildings,
and we find all men of true feeling delighting to escape out of
modern cities into natural scenery : hence, as I shall hereafter
show, that peculiar love of landscape which is characteristic of
the age. It would be well, if, in all other matters, we were as
ready to put up with what we dislike, for the sake of compli-
ance with established law, as we are in architecture.
§ xxxi. How so debased a law ever came to be established,
we shall see when we come to describe the Renaissance
schools : here we have only to note, as the second most essen-
tial element of the Gothic spirit, that it broke through that
law wherever it found it in existence ; it not only dared, but
delighted in, the infringement of every servile principle ; and
invented a series of forms of which the merit was, not merely
that they were new, but that they were capable of perpetual
novelty. The pointed arch was not merely a bold Variation
from the round, but it admitted of millions of variations in
itself ; for the proportions of a pointed arch are changeable to
infinity, while a circular arch is always the same. The grouped
shaft was not merely a bold variation from the single one, but
it admitted of millions of variations in its grouping, and in the
proportions resultant from its grouping. The introduction of
tracery was not only a startling change in the treatment of
window lights, but admitted endless changes, in the interlace-
ment of the tracery bars themselves. So that, while in all
living Christian architecture the love of variety exists, the
Gothic schools exhibited that love in culminating energy; and
176 SECOND PERIOD. IL CHANGEFULNESS.
their influence, wherever it extended itself, may be sooner and
farther traced by this character than by any other ; the ten-
dency to the adoption of Gothic types being always first shown
by greater irregularity and richer variation in the forms of the
architecture it is about to supersede, long before the appear-
ance of the pointed arch or of any other recognizable outward
sign of the Gothic mind.
O
§ xxxii. We must, however, herein note carefully what
distinction there is between a healthy and a diseased love of
change ; for as it was in healthy love of change that the Gothic
architecture rose, it was partly in consequence QJ diseased love
ofjchange that it was destroyed. In order to understate!" tMs
clearly, it will be necessary to consider the different ways in
which change and monotony are presented to us in nature ;
both having their use, like darkness and light, and the one in-
capable of being enjoyed without the other : change being
most delightful after some prolongation of monotony,, as light
appears most brilliant after the eyes have been for some time
-closed.
§ xxxin. I believe that the true relations of monotony and
change may be most simply understood by observing them in
music. We may therein notice, first, that there is a sublimity
and majesty in monotony which there is not in rapid or fre-
quent variation. This is true throughout all nature. The
greater part of the sublimity of the sea depends on its monot-
ony ; so also that of desolate moor and mountain scenery ; and
especially the sublimity of motion, as in the quiet, unchanged
fall and rise of an engine beam. So also there is sublimity in
darkness which there is not in light.
§ xxxiv. Again, monotony after a certain time, or beyond
a certain degree, becomes either uninteresting or intolerable,
and the musician is obliged to break it in one or two ways :
either while the air or passage is perpetually repeated, its
notes are variously enriched and harmonized ; or else, after a
certain number of repeated passages, an entirely new passage
is introduced, which is more or less delightful according to
the length of the previous monotony. Nature, of course, uses
H CHA3TGEFULNESS. VI. THE NATUKE OP GOTHIC. 177
both these kinds of variation perpetually. The sea-waves,
rormbling each other in general mass, but none like its
brothei1 in minor divisions and curves, are a monotony of the
first kind ; the great plain, broken by an emergent rock or
clump of trees, is a monotony of the second.
§ xxxv. Farther : in order to the enjoyment of the change
in either case, a certain degree of patience is required from
the hearer or observer. In the first case, he must be satisfied
to endure with patience the recurrence of the great masses of
sound or form, and to seek for entertainment in a careful
watchfulness of the minor details. In the second case, he must
bear patiently the infliction of the monotony for some moments,
in order to feel the full refreshment of the change. This is
true even of the shortest musical passage in which the element
of monotony is employed. In cases of more majestic monot-
ony, the patience required is so considerable that it becomes a
kind of pain, — a price paid for the future pleasure.
§ xxxvi. Again : the talent of the composer is not in the
monotony, but in the changes : he may show feeling and taste
by his use of monotony in certain places or degrees ; that is to
say, by his various employment of it ; but it is always in the
new arrangement or invention that his intellect is shown, and
not in the monotony which relieves it.
Lastly : if the pleasure of change be too often repeated, it
ceases to be delightful, for then change itself becomes monot-
onous, and we are driven to seek delight in extreme and fan-
tastic degrees of it. This is the diseased love of change 5f
which we have above spoken.
§ xxxvu. From these facts we may gather generally that
monotony is, and ought to be, in itself painful to us, just as
darkness is ; that an architecture which is altogether monoto-
nous is a dark or dead architecture ; and, of those who love it,
it may be truly said, " they love darkness rather than light."
But monotony in certain measure, used in order to give value
to change, and, above all, that transparent monotony which,
like the shadows of a great painter, suffers all manner of dimly
suggested form to be seen through the body of it, is an essen-
178 SECOND PERIOD. IT. CIIAXGEFULNESS.
tial in architectural as in all other composition ; and the endur-
ance of monotony has about the same place in a healthy mind
that the endurance of darkness has : that is to say, as a strong
intellect will have pleasure in the solemnities of storm and
twilight^ and in the broken and mysterious lights that gleam
among them, rather than in mere brilliancy and glare, while a
frivolous mind will dread the shadow and the storm ; and as
a great man will be ready to endure much darkness of fortune
in order to reach greater eminence of power or felicity, while
an inferior man will not pay the price ; exactly in like manner a
great mind will accept, or even delight in, monotony which
would be wearisome to an inferior intellect, because it has
more patience and power of expectation, and is ready to pay
the full price for the great future pleasure of change. But in
all cases it is not that the noble nature loves monotony, any
more than'it loves darkness or pain. But it can bear with it,
and receives a high pleasure in the endurance or patience, a
pleasure necessary to the well-being of this world ; while those
who will not submit to the temporary sameness, but rush from
one change to another, gradually dull the edge of change it-
self, and bring a shadow and weariness over the whole world
from which there is no more escape.
§ xxxvin. From these general uses of variety in the econ-
omy of the world, we may at once understand its use and
abuse in architecture. The variety of the Gothic schools is
the more healthy and beautiful, because in many cases it is
entirely unstudied, and results, not from the mere love of
| change, but from practical necessities. For in one point of
I view Gothic is not only the best, but the only rational archi-
I tecture, as being that which can fit itself most easily to all ser-
/ vices, vulgar or noble. Undefined in its slope of roof, height
of shaft, breadth of arch, or disposition of ground plan, it can
shrink into a turret, expand into a hall, coil into a staircase, or
spring into a spire, with undegraded grace and unexhausted
energy ; and whenever it finds occasion for change in its form
or purpose, it submits to it without the slightest sense of less
either to its unity or majesty,— subtle and flexible like a fiery
II. CHANGEFVLXESS. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
179
serpent, but ever attentive to the voice of the charmer. And
it is one of the chief virtues of the Gothic builders, that they
m>\ -el- suffered ideas of outside symmetries and consistencies to
interfere with the real use and value of what they did. If
they wanted a window, they opened one ; a room, they added
one ; a buttress, they built one ; utterly regardless of any es-
tablished conventionalities of external appearance, knowing (as
indeed it always happened) that such daring interim ptions. of
the formal plan would rather give additional interest to its
symmetry than injure it. So that, in the best times of Gothic,
a useless window would rather have been opened in an unex-
pected place for the sake of the surprise, than a useful one for-
bidden for the sake of symmetry. Every successive architect,
employed upon a great work, built the pieces he added in his
own way, utterly regardless of the style adopted by his prede-
cessors ; and if two towers were raised in nominal correspond-
ence at the sides of a cathedral front, one was nearly sure to
be different from the other, and in each the style at the top to
be different from the style at the bottom.*
§ xxxix. These marked variations were, however, only per-
mitted as part of the great system of perpetual change which
ran through every member of Gothic design, and rendered it
as endless a field for the beholder's inquiry, as for the builder's
imagination : change, which in the best schools is subtle and
delicate, and rendered more delightful by intermingling of a
noble monotony; in the more barbaric schools is somewhat
fantastic and redundant ; but, in all, a necessary and constant
condition of the life of the school. Sometimes the variety is
in one feature, sometimes in another ; it may be in the capitals
or crockets, in the niches or the traceries, or in all together,
but in some one or other of the features it will be found
always. If the mouldings are constant, the surface sculpture
wiil change ; if the capitals are of a fixed design, the traceries
will change ; if the traceries are monotonous, the capitals will
* In the eighth chapter we shall see a remarkable instance of this sacri-
fice of symmetry to convenience in the arrangement of the windows of the
Ducal Palace.
II
180 SECOND PERIOD. II. CHANGEFULNESS.
change ; and if even, as in some fine schools, the early English
for example, there is the slightest approximation to an unvary-
ing type of mouldings, capitals, and floral decoration, the
variety is found in the disposition of the masses, and in the
figure sculpture.
§ XL. I must now refer for a moment, before we quit the
consideration of this, the second mental element of Gothic, to
the opening of the third chapter of the " Seven Lamps of Ar-
chitecture," in which the distinction was drawn (§ 2) between
man gathering and man governing; between his acceptance
of the sources of delight from nature, and his developement of
authoritative or imaginative power in their arrangement : for
the two mental elements, not only of Gothic, but of all good
architecture, which we have just been examining, belong to it,
and are admirable in it, chiefly as it is, more than any other
subject of art, the work of man, and the expression of the
average power of man. A picture or poem is often little more
than a feeble utterance of man's admiration of something out
of himself ; but architecture approaches more to a creation of
his own, born of his necessities, and expressive of his nature.
It is also, in some sort, the work of the whole race, while the
picture or statue are the work of one only, in most cases more
highly gifted than his fellows. And therefore we may expect
that the first two elements of good architecture should be ex-
pressive of some great truths commonly belonging to the whole
race, and necessary to be understood or felt by them in all
their work that they do under the sun. And observe what
they are : the confession of Imperfection and the confession of
Desire of Change. The building of the bird and the bee needs
not express anything like, this. It is perfect and unchanging.
But just because we are something better than birds or bees,
our building must confess that we have not reached the perfec-
tion we can imagine, and cannot rest in the condition we have
attained. If we pretend to have reached either perfection or
satisfaction, we have degraded ourselves and our work. God's
work only may express that ; but ours may never have that
sentence written upon it, — " And behold, it was very good."
III. NATURALISM. VI. THE XATUKE OF GOTHIC. IS I
And, observe again, it is not merely as it renders the edifice a
book of various knowledge, or a mine of precious thought, that
variety is essential to its nobleness. The vital principle is not
the love of Knowledge, but the love of Change. It is that
strange disquietude of the Gothic spirit that is its greatness ;
that restlessness of the dreaming mind, that wanders hither
and thither among the niches, and flickers feverishly around
the pinnacles, and frets and fades in labyrinthine knots and
shadows along wall and roof, and yet is not satisfied, nor shall
be satisfied. The Greek could stay in his triglyph furrow, and
be at peace ; but the work of the Gothic heart is fretwork still,
and it can neither rest in, nor from, its labor, but must pass on,
sleeplessly, until its love of change shall be pacified for ever in
the change that must come alike on them that wake and them
that sleep.
§ XLI. The third constituent element of the Got hi
wasjjjajed to be NATURALISM ; that is to say
ral objects tor their own sake, and the effortto represent
-+'rjmkl-y-c-uncoiistrained by artistical
This characteristic of the style partly follows. in necessary ^~~
connexion with those named above. For, so soon as the. work-
man is left free to represent what subjects he chooses, he must
look to the nature that, is round him for material, and will en-
deavor to represent it as he sees it, with more or less accuracy
according to the skill he possesses, and with mn^ play o'f
fancfcj)ut withjsmall respect for law. There is, however, a=
marked distinction between the imaginations of the Western
and Eastern races, even when both are left free; the Western,
or Gothic, delighting most in the representation of facts, and
the Eastern (Arabian, Persian, and Chinese) in the harmony of
colors and forms. Each of these intellectual dispositions 'has
irs particular forms of error and abuse, which, though I have
<>!t. MI before stated, I must here again briefly explain; and
this the rather, because the word Naturalism is, in one of its
senses, justly used as a term of reproach, and the questions re-
specting the real relations of art and nature are so many and
so confused throughout all the schools of Europe at this day,
182 SECOND PERIOD. m. NATURALISM.
that I cannot clearly enunciate any single truth without ap-
pearing to admit, in fellowship with it, some kind of error,
unless the reader will bear with me in entering into such an
analysis of the subject as will serve us for general guidance.
§ XLII. We are to remember, in the first place, that the ar-
rangement of colors and lines is an art analogous to the com-
position * of music, and entirely independent of the represen-
tation of facts. Good coloring does not necessarily convey the
image of anything but itself. It consists in certain propor-
tions and arrangements of rays of light, but not in likenesses
to anything. A few touches of certain greys and purples laid
by a master's hand on white paper, will be good coloring ; as
more touches are added beside them, we may find out that
they were intended to represent a dove's neck, and we may
praise, as the drawing advances, the perfect imitation of the
dove's neck. But the good coloring does not consist in that
imitation, but in the abstract qualities and relations of the grey
and purple.
In like manner, as soon as a great sculptor begins to shape
his work out of the block, we shall see that its lines are nobly
arranged, and of noble character. "We may not have the
slightest idea for what the forms are intended, whether they
are of man or beast, of vegetation or drapery. Their like-
ness to anything does not affect their nobleness. They are
magnificent forms, and that is all we need care to know of
them, in order to say whether the workman is a good or bad
sculptor.
* I am always afraid to use this word "Composition:" it is so utterly
misused in the general parlance respecting art. Nothing is more common
than to hear divisions of art into "form, composition, and color." or "light
and shade and composition," or "sentiment and composition," or it mat-
ters not what else and composition ; the speakers in each case attaching a
perfectly different meaning to the word, generally an indistinct one. and
always a wrong one. Composition is, in plain English, "putting together,"
and it means the putting together of lines, of forms, of colors, of shades,
or of ideas. Painters compose in color, compose in thought, compose in
form, and compose in effect: the word being of use merely in order to
express a scientific, disciplined, and inventive arrangement of any of these,
instead of a merely natural or accidental one.
(II. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 183
§ XLIII. Xow the noblest art is an exact unison of the ab-
stract value, with the imitative power, of forms and colors.
It is the noblest composition, used to express the noblest
facts. But the human mind cannot in general unite the two
perfections : it either pursues the fact to the neglect of the
composition, or pursues the composition to the neglect of the
fact.
§ XLIV. And it is intended by the Deity that it should do
this ; the best art is not always wanted. Facts are often want-
ed without art, as in a geological diagram ; and art often with-
out facts, as in a Turkey carpet. And most men have been
made capable of giving either one or the other, but not both ;
only one or two, the very highest, can give both.
Observe then. Men are universally divided, as respects
their artistical qualifications, into three great classes ; a right,
a left, and a centre. On the right side are the men of facts,
on the left the men of design,* in the centre the men of
both.
The three classes of course pass into each other by imper-
ceptible gradations. The men of facts are hardly ever alto-
gether without powers of design ; the men of design are" al-
ways in some measure cognizant of facts ; and as each class
possesses more or less of the powers of the opposite one, it
approaches to the character of the central class. Few men,
even in that central rank, are so exactly throned on the sum-
mit of the crest that they cannot be perceived to incline in the-
least one way or the other, embracing both horizons with their
glance. Now each of these classes has, as I above said, a
healthy function in the world, and correlative diseases or un
healthy functions ; and, when the work of either of them is
seen in its morbid condition, we are apt to find fault with the
elnss of workmen, instead of finding fault only with the par-
ticular abuse which has perverted their action.
* Design is used in this place as expressive of the power to arrange
lines and colors nobly. By facts, I mean facts perceived by the eye and
mind, not facts accumulated by knowledge. See the chapter on Roman
Renaissance (Vol. III. Chap. II.) for this distinction.
184 SECOND PERIOD. in. NATURALISM.
§ XLV. Let us first take an instance of the healthy action
of the three classes on a simple subject, so as fully to under-
stand the distinction between them, and then we shall more
easily examine the corruptions to which they are liable. Fig.
1 in Plate VI. is a spray of vine with a bough of cherry-tree,
which I have outlined from nature as accurately as I could,
without in the least endeavoring to compose or arrange the
form. It is a simple piece of fact-work, healthy and good as
such, and useful to a,ny one who wanted to know plain truths
about tendrils of vines, but there is no attempt at design in it.
Plate XIX., below, represents a branch of vine used to deco-
rate the angle of the Ducal Palace. It is faithful as a repre-
sentation of vine, and yet so designed tlrat every leaf serves
an architectural purpose, and could not be spared from its
place without harm. This is central work ; fact and design
together. Fig. 2 in Plate VI. is a spandril from St. Mark's,
in which the forms of the vine are dimly suggested, the ob-
ject of the design being merely to obtain graceful lines and
well proportioned masses upon the gold ground. There is
not the least attempt to inform the spectator of any facts
about the growth of the vine ; there are no .stalks or ten-
drils,— merely running bands with leaves emergent from
them, of which nothing but the outline is taken from the
vine, and even that imperfectly. This is design, unregardful
of facts.
Now the work is, in all these three cases, perfectly healthy.
Fig. 1 is not bad work because it has not design, nor Fig. 2
bad work because it has not facts. The object of the one is to
give pleasure through truth, and of the other to give pleasure
irough composition. Arid both are right.
What, then, are the diseased operations to which the three
' lasses of workmen are liable ?
§ XLVI. Primarily, two ; affecting the two inferior classes :
1st, When either of those two classes Despises the other :
2nd, When either of the two classes Envies the other ; pro-
^tfrer^fore, four forms of dangerous error.
First, whep the men of facts despise design. This is the
m. NATURALISM. VI. THE HATURE OP GOTHIC. 185
error of the common Dutch painters, of merely imitative
painters of still life, flowers, &c., and other men who, having
either the gift of accurate imitation or strong sympathies with
nature, suppose that all is done when the imitation is perfected
or sympathy expressed. A large body of English landscapists
come into this class, including most clever sketchers from na-
ture, who fancy that to get a sky of true tone, and a gleam of
sunshine or sweep of shower faithfully expressed, is all that
can be required of art. These men are generally themselves
answerable for much of their deadness of feeling to the higher
qualities of composition. They probably have not originally
the high gifts of design, but they lose such powers as they
originally possessed by despising, and refusing to study, the
results of great power of design in others. Their knowledge,
as far as it goes, being accurate, they are usually presumptu-
ous and self-conceited, and gradually become incapable of ad-
miring anything but what is like their own works. They see
nothing in the works of great designers but the faults, and do
harm almost incalculable in the European society of the pres-
ent day by sneering at the compositions of the greatest men of
the earlier ages,* because they do not absolutely tally with
their own ideas of " JTature." J
§ xLvnyTlie second fpj»m of error is when the men of
design despise factSj^&Tlnoble design must deal with facts to
a certain exteTfl7"ior there is no food for it but in nature. The
best colorist invents best by taking hints from natural colors ;
from birds, skies, or groups of. figures. And if, in the delight
of inventing fantastic color and form the truths of nature are
wilfully neglected, the intellect becomes comparatively de-
crepit, and that state of art results which we find among the
Chinese. The Greek designers delighted in the facts of the
human form, and became great in consequence ; but the facts
of lower nature were disregarded by them, and their inferior
ornament became, therefore, dead and valueless.
* " Earlier," that is to say, pre-Raphaelite ages. Men of this stamp will
praise Claude, and such other comparatively debased artists; but they can-
not taste the work of the thirteenth century.
180 SECOND PERIOD. ni. NATURALISM.
§ XLVIII. ThtTthird form of error is when the men of facts
envy design :v that is to say, when, having only imitative
powers, they refuse to employ those powers upon the visible
world around them ; but, having been taught that composition
is the end of art, strive to obtain the inventive powers which
nature has denied them, study nothing but the works of re-
puted designers, and perish in a fungous growth of plagiarism
nd laws of art.
Here was the great error of the beginning of this century ;
it is the error of the meanest kind of men that employ them-
selves in painting, and it is the most fatal of all, rendering
those who fall into it utterly useless, incapable of helping the
world with either truth or fancy, while, in all probability, they
deceive it by base resemblances of both, until it hardly recog-
nizes truth or fancy when they really exist.
§ XLIX. The fourth form of error is when the men of de-
sign envy facts ; that is to say, when the temptation of closely
imitating nature leads them to forget their own proper orna-
mental function, and when they lose the power of the com-
position for the sake of graphic truth ; as, for instance, in the
hawthorn moulding so often spoken of round the porch of
Bourges Cathedral, which, though very lovely, might perhaps,
as we saw above, have been better, if the old builder, in his
excessive desire to make it look like hawthorn, had not painted
it green.
§ L. It is, however, carefully to be noted, that the two
morbid conditions to which the men of facts are liable are
much more dangerous and harmful than those to which the
men of design are liable. The morbid state of men of design
injures themselves only ; that of the men of facts injures the
whole world. The Chinese porcelain-painter is, indeed, not
so great a man as he might be, but he does not want to break
everything that is not porcelain ; but the modern English fact-
hunter, despising design, wants to destroy everything that does
not agree with his own notions of truth, and becomes the most
dangerous and despicable of iconoclasts, excited by egotism in-
stead of religion. Again : the Bourges sculptor, painting his
III. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 187
hawthorns green, did indeed somewhat hurt the effect of his
own beautiful design, but did not prevent any one from loving
hawthorn : but Sir George Beaumont, trying to make Con-
stable paint grass brown instead of green, was setting himself
between Constable and nature, blinding the painter, and blas-
pheming the work of God.
§ LI. So much, then, of the diseases of the inferior classes,
caused by their envying or despising each other. It is evident
that the men of the central class cannot be .liable to any mor-
bid operation of this kind, they possessing the powers of both.
But there is another order of diseases which affect all the
three classes, considered with respect to their pursuit of facts.
For observe, all the three classes are in some degree pursuers
of facts ; even the men of design not beim* m any case alto-
gether independent of external truth, f^Kow, considering them
"" uy uiuiv Ul' less searchers after truthT'the're is another triple
division to be made of them. Everything presented to them
in nature has good and evil mingled in it : and artists, con-
as searchers after truth, are again to be divided inl
BS, a right, a, Ip-Pt, arif) a.
right perceive, and pursue, the good, and leave the evil : thos
in the centre, the greatest, perceive and pursue the good andj
evil together, the whole thing as it verily is : those on the left;
perceive and pursjie the evil, and leave the good.
§ LII. The 'first ^lass, I say, take the good and leave the r
evil. Out oi^TStever is presented to them, they gather wbat^ r-
it has of grace, and life, and light, and holiness, and leave all, \^j /
or at least as much as possible, of the rest undrawn. The
faces of their figures express no evil passions ; the skies of
their landscapes are without storm ; the prevalent character
of their color is brightness, and of their chiaroscuro fulness of
light. The early Italian and Flemish painters, Angelico and
Ilemling, Perugino, Francia, Raffaelle in his best time, John
Bellini, and our own Stothard, belong eminently to this class.
§ LIII. The second, or greatest class, render all that they see
in nature unhesitatingly, with a kind of divine grasp i
government of the whole, sympathizing with all the good, and
188 SECOND PEEIOD. III. NATURALISM.
yet confessing, permitting, and bringing good oat of the evil
also. Their subject is infinite as nature, their color equally
balanced between splendor and sadness, reaching occasionally
the highest degrees of both, and their chiaroscuro equally
balanced between light and shade.
The principal men of this class are Michael Angelo, Leon-
ardo, Giotto, Tintoret, and Turner. Raffaelle in his second
time, Titian, and Rubens are transitional ; the first inclining to
the eclectic, and the last two to the impure class, Raffaelle
rarely giving all the evil, Titian and Rubens rarely all the
d- \
§ LIV. The last class perceive and imitate evil only. They \
cannot draw the trunk of a tree without blasting and shatter-
ing it, nor a sky except covered with stormy clouds : they de-
light in the beggary and brutality of the human race ; their
color is for the most part subdued or lurid, and the greatest ^
spaces of their pictures are occupied by darkness.
Happily the examples of this class are seldom seen in
fection. Salvator Rosa and Caravaggio are the most charac-
teristic : the other men belonging to it approach towards the
central rank by imperceptible gradations, as they perceive and
represent more and more of good. But Murillo, Zurbai-an,
Camillo Procaccini, Rembrandt, and Teniers, all belong
naturally to this lower class.
§ LV. Now, observe : the three classes into which artists
were previously divided, of men of fact, men of design, and
men of both, are all of Divine institution ; but of these latter
three, the last is in no wise of Divine institution. It is entirely
human, and the men who belong to it have sunk into it by
-^ their own faults. They are, so far forth, either useless or
harmful men. It is indeed good that evil should be occasion-
ally represented, even in its worst forms, but never that it
should be taken delight in : and the mighty men of the central
class will aways give us all that is needful of it ; sometimes, as
Hogarth did, dwelling upon it bitterly as satirists, — but this
with the more effect, because they will neither exaggerate it, nor
represent it mercilessly, and without the atoning points that all
HI. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 189
n
evil shows to a Divinely guided glance, even at its deepest. 1
So then, though the third class will always, I fear, in some '
measure exist, the two necessary classes are only the first two ;
and this is so far acknowledged by the general sense of men,
that the basest class has been confounded with the second ; and
painters have been divided commonly only into two ranks, now
known, I believe, throughout Europe by the names which they
first received in Italy, " Puristi and Naturalisti." Since, how-
ever, in the existing state of things, the degraded or evil-
loving class, though less defined than that of the Puristi, is
just as vast as it is indistinct, this division has done infinite
dishonor to the great faithful painters of nature : and it has
long been one of the objects I have had most at heart to
show that, in reality, the Purists, in their sanctity, are less
separated from these natural painters than the Sensualists in
their foulness; and that the difference, though less discernible,
is in reality greater, between the man who pursues evil for
its own sake, and him who bears with it for the sake of truth,
than between this latter and the man who will not endure it
at all.
§ LVI. Let us, then, endeavor briefly to mark the real rela-
tions of these three vast ranks of men, whom I shall call, for
fl
convenience in speaking of them, Purists, Naturalists, and j
Sensualists ; not that these terms express their real characters,
but T know no word, and cannot coin a convenient one, which
would accurately express the opposite of Purist ; and I keep
the terms Purist and Naturalist in order to comply, as far as
possible, with the established usage of language on the Conti-
nent. Now, observe : in saying that nearly everything pre-
sented to us in nature has mingling in it of good and evil, Ldo
not mean thaFnature is conceivably improvable, or that any-
thing that God has made could be called evil, if we could see
far enough into its uses, but that, with respect to irrimediate
effects or appearances, it may be so, just as the hard rind or
bitter kernel of a fruit may be an evil to the eater, though in
the one is the protection of the fruit, and in the other its con-
tinuance. The Purist, therefore, does not mend nature, but
190
SECOXD PERIOD.
NATURALISM.
receives from nature and from God that which is good for him ;
while the Sensualist fills himself "with the husks that the
swine did eat."
The three classes may, therefore, be likened to men reaping
wheat, of which the Purists take the fine flour, and the Sen-
sualists the chaff and straw, but the Naturalists take all home,
and make their cake of the one, and their couch of the other.
§ LVII. For instance. We know more certainly every day
that whatever appears to us harmful in the universe has some
beneficent or necessary operation ; that the storm which de-
/stroys a harvest brightens the sunbeams for harvests yet unsown,
/ and that the volcano which buries a city preserves a thousand
from destruction. But the evil is not for the time less fearful,
because we have learned it to be necessary ; and we easily
understand the timidity or the tenderness of the spirit which
' would withdraw itself from the presence of destruction, and
create in its imagination a world of which the peace should be
unbroken, in which the sky should not darken nor the sea
rage, in which the leaf should not change nor the blossom
wither. That man is greater, however, who contemplates
with an equal mind the alternations of terror and of beauty ;
who, not rejoicing less beneath the sunny sky, can bear also to
watch the bars of twilight narrowing on the horizon ; and, not
less sensible to the blessing of the peace of nature, can rejoice
^ in the magnificence of the ordinances by which that peace is
Op protected and secured. But separated from both by an im-
measurable distance would be the man who delighted in con-
vulsion and disease for their own sake ; who found his daily
food in the disorder of nature mingled with the suffering of
humanity ; and watched Joyfully at the right hand of the
. Angel whose appointed work is to destroy as well as to accuse,
•y, while the corners of the House of feasting were struck by the
wind from the wilderness.
§ LVIII. And far more is this true, when the subject of con-
y4£QTplation is human it jyft self. The passions of mankind are
partly protective, partly beneficent, like the chaff and grain of
the corn ; but none without their use, none without nobleness
m. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 191
when seen in balanced unity with the rest of the spirt which
they are charged to defend. The passions of which the end is
the continuance of the race ; the indignation which is to arm
it against injustice, or strengthen it to resist wanton injury ;
and the fear * which lies at the root of prudence, reverence,
and awe, are all honorable and beautiful, so long as man is re-
garded in his relations to the existing world. ^heT religious!
f Ul'lBt, striving to conceive him withdrawn from those rela-f
tions, effaces from the countenance the traces of all transitory
passion, illumines it with holy hope and love, and seals it with']
the serenity of heavenly peace ; he conceals the forms of the
body by the deep-folded garment, or else represents them
under severely chastened types, and would rather paint them
emaciated by the fast, or pale from the torture, than strength-
ened by exertion, or flushed by emotion. But the great Natu-
ralist takes the human being in its wholeness, in its mortal as
well as its spiritual strength. Capable of sounding aud sym-
pathizing with the whole range of its passions, he brings one
majestic harmony out of them all ; he represents it fearlessly
in all its acts and thoughts, in its haste, its anger, its sensuality,
and its pride, as well as in its fortitude or faith, but majtes it
noble in them all ; he oasts aside the veil from the body,
and beholds the mysteries of its form like an angel looking ,
down on an inferior creature : there is nothing which he is re- 1
luctant to behold, nothing that he is ashamed to confess ; with
all that lives, triumphing, falling, or suffering, he claims kin-
dred, either in majesty or in mercy, yet standing, in a sort, afar
off, unmoved even in the deepness of his sympathy ; for the
spirit within him is too thoughtful to be grieved, too brave to
l>e fi.p])ji11<>fl and ton mire to be
\
£ r.ix. TImv far beneath those two ranks of men shall we
place, in the scale of being, those whose pleasure is only in sin
or in suffering ; who habitually contemplate humanity an pov-
erty or decrepitude, fury or sensuality ; whose works are either
temptations to its weakness, or triumphs over its ruin, and rec-
* Not selfish fear, caused by want of trust in God, or of resolution in the
•oul.
ognize no other subjects for thought or admiration than the
subtlety of the robber, the rage of the soldier, or the joy of the
Sybarite. It seems strange, when thus definitely stated, that
such a school should exist. Yet consider a little what gaps
and blanks would disfigure our gallery and chamber walls, in
places that we have long approached with reverence, if every
icture, every statue, were removed from them, of which the
ubject was either the vice or the misery of mankind, portrayed
ithout any moral puFpose : consider tne innumerable groups
laving reference merely to various forms of passion, low or
high ; drunken revels and brawls among peasants, gambling
or fighting scenes among soldiers, amours and intrigues among
A every class, brutal battle pieces, banditti subjects, gluts of tor-
* ture and death in famine, wreck, or slaughter, for the sake
merely of the excitement, — that quickening and suppling of
the dull spirit that cannot be gained for it but by bathing it in
blood, afterward to wither back into stained and stiffened
apathy ; and then that whole vast false heaven of sensual pas-
sion, full of nymphs, satyrs, graces, goddesses, and I know not
what, from its high seventh circle in Correggio's Antiope,
dow» to the Grecized ballet-dancers and smirking Cupids of
the Parisian upholsterer. Sweep away all this, remorselessly,
and see how much art we should have left.
§ LX. And yet these are only the grossest manifestations of
the tendency of the school. There are subtler, yet not less
certain, signs of it in the works of men who stand high in the
world's list of sacred painters. I doubt not that the reader was
surprised when I named Murillo among the men of this third
rank. Yet, go into the Dulwich Gallery, and meditate for a
little over that much celebrated picture of the two beggar boys,
one eating lying on the ground, the other standing beside him.
We have among our own painters one who cannot indeed be
set beside Murillo as a painter of Madonnas, for he is a pure
Naturalist, and, never having seen a Madonna, does not paint
any ; but who, as a painter of beggar or peasant boys, may be
set beside Murillo, or any one else, — W. Hunt. He loves peas-
ant boys, because he finds them more roughly and picturesquely
m. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 193
dressed, and more healthily colored, than others. And he
paints all that he sees in them fearlessly ; all the health and
humor, and freshness, and vitality, together with such awk-
wardness and stupidity, and what else of negative or positive
harm there may be in the creature; but yet so that on the
whole we love it, and find it perhaps even beautiful, or if not,
at least we see that there is capability of good in it, rather than
of evil ; and all is lighted up by a sunshine and sweet color
that makes the smock-frock as precious as cloth of gold. But
look at those two ragged and vicious vagrants that Murillo has
gathered out of the street. You smile at first, because they
are eating so naturally, and their roguery is so complete. • But
is there anything else than roguery there, or was it well for
the painter to give his time to the painting of those repulsive
and wicked children ? Do you feel moved with any charity
towards children as you look at them ? Are we the least more-
likely to take any interest in ragged schools, or to help the next
pauper child that comes in our way,, because the painter has
shown us a cunning beggar feeding greedily ? Mark the choice
of the act. He might have shown hunger in 'other ways, and
given interest to even this act of eating, by making the face
wasted, or the eye wistful. But he did not care to do this.
He delighted merely in the disgusting manner of eating, the
food filling the cheek ; the boy is not hungry, else he would
not turn round to talk and grin as he eats.
§ LXI. But observe another point in the lower figure. It
lies so that the sole of the foot is turned towards the spectator;
not because it would have lain less easily in another attitude,
but that the painter may draw, and exhibit, the grey dust en-
UTuined in the foot. Do not call this the painting of nature :
it is mere delight in foulness. The lesson, if there be any, in
the picture, is not one whit the stronger. We all know that a
beggar's bare foot cannot be clean ; there is no need to thrust
its degradation into the light, as if no human imagination were
vigorous enough for its conception.
§ Exn. The position of the Sensualists, in treatment of land-
scape, is less distinctly marked than in that of the figure : fo
194 SECOND PERIOD. HI. NATURALISM.
cause even the wildcat passions of nature are noble : but the
inclination is manifested by carelessness in marking generic
form in trees and flowers : by their preferring confused and
irregular arrangements of foliage or foreground to symmetri-
cal and simple grouping ; by their general choice of such pic-
turesqueness as results from decay, disorder, and disease, rather
than of that which is consistent with the perfection of the
things in which it is found ; and by their imperfect rendering
of the elements of strength and beauty in all things. I pro-
pose to work out this subject fully in the last volume of " Mod-
ern Painters ;" but I trust that enough has been here said to
enable the reader to understand the relations of the three great
classes of artists, and therefore also the kinds of morbid con-
dition into which the two higher (for the last has no other
than a morbid condition) are liable to fall. For, since the
function of the Naturalists is to represent, as far as may be,
the whole of nature, and the Purists to represent what is abso-
lutely good for some special purpose or time, it is evident that
both are liable to error from shortness of sight, and the last
also from weakness of judgment. I say, in the first place, both
may err from shortness of sight, from not seeing all that there
is in nature; seeing only the outsides of things, or those points of
them which bear least on the matter in hand. For instance, a
modern continental Naturalist sees the anatomy of a limb thor-
oughly, but does not see its color against the sky, which latter
fact is to a painter far the more important of the two. And
inse it is always easier to see the surface than the depth of
things, the full sight of them requiring the highest powers of
penetration, sympathy, and imagination, the world is full of
vulgar Naturalists : not Sensualists, observe, not men who de-
light in evil ; but men who never see the deepest good, and
who bring discredit on all painting of Nature by the little that
they discover in her. And the Purist, besides being liable to
this same shortsightedness, is liable also to fatal errors of judg-
ment ; for he may think that good which is not so, and that
the highest good which is the least. And thus the world is
III. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 195
full of vulgar Purists,* who bring discredit on all selection by
the silliness of their choice ;- and this the more, because the
very becoming a Purist is commonly indicative of some slight
degree of weakness, readiness to be offended, or narrowness of
understanding of the ends of things : the greatest men being,
n all times of art, Naturalists, without any exception ; and the
greatest Purists being those who approach nearest to the Natu-
ralists, as Benozzo Gozzoli and Perugino. Hence there is a
tendency in the Naturalists to despise the Purists, and in the
Purists toHbe offended with the Naturalists (not understanding
them, and confounding them with the Sensualists); and this is
grievously harmful to both.
§ LXIII. Of the various forms of resultant mischief it is not
here the place to speak : the reader may already be somewhat
wearied with a statement which has led us apparently so far
from our immediate subject. But the digression was neces-
sary, in order that I might clearly define the sense in which I
use the word Naturalism when I state it to be the third most
essential characteristic of Gothic architecture. I mean that the
Gothic builders belong to the central or greatest rank in both
the classifications of artists which we have just made ; that,
considering all artists as either men of design, men of facts, or
* I reserve for another place the full discussion of this interesting sub-
ject, which here would have led me too far ; but it must be noted, in pass-
ing, that this vulgar Purism, which rejects truth, not because it is vicious,
but because it is humble, and consists not in choosing what is good, but in
disguising what is rough, extends itself into every species of art. The most
definite instance of it is the dressing of characters of peasantry in an opera
or ballet scene ; and the walls of our exhibitions are full of works of art
which "exalt nature" in the same way, not by revealing what is great in
the heart, but by smoothing what is coarse in the complexion. There is
nothing, I believe, so vulgar, so hopeless, so indicative of an irretrievably
base mind, as this species of Purism. Of healthy Purism carried to the ut-
most endurable length in this direction, exalting the heart first, and the
features with it, perhaps the most characteristic instance I can give is Stoth-
ard's vignette to "Jorasse," in Rogers's Italy ; »at least it would be so if it
could be soon beside a real group of Swiss girls. The poems of Rogers,
compared with those of Crabbe, are admirable instances of the healthiest
Purism and healthiest Naturalism in poetry. The first great Naturalists of
Christian art were Orcagua and Giotto.
196
SECOND PERIOD.
tn. NATURALISM.
m
men of both, the Gothic builders were men of both ; and that
again, considering all artists as either Purists, Naturalists, or
Sensualists, the Gothic builders were N^rtrrrailsts.
§ LXIV. I say first, that the Gothic builders were of that
central class which unites fact with design ; but that the part
of the work which was more especially their own was the truth-
fulness. Their power of artistical invention or arrangement was
not greater than that of Romanesque and Byzantine workmen :
by those workmen they were taught the principles, and from
them received their models, of design ; but to the ornamental
feeling and rich fancy of the Byzantine the Gothic builder
added a love of fact which is never found in the South. Both
Greek and Roman used conventional foliage in their ornament,
passing into something that was not foliage at all, knotting
itself into strange cup-like buds or clusters, and growing out of
lifeless rods instead of stems ; the Gothic sculptor received
jthese types, at first, as things that ought to be, just as we have
a second time received them ; but ho could n£t^restjnj;he
e saw There was no veracity irTThe'm, ncTknowledge, no
vitality. Do what he would, he could not help liking the true
leaves better ; and cautiously, a little at a time, he put more of
afore into Ins \vt»rk, until at last it was all true, retaining,
levertheless, eveTf valuable character of the original well-disci- /
jjlingd-a»4-4eaiffned arrangement. *^^^
§ LXV. Nor is it only in external and visible subject that
the Gothic workman wrought for truth : he is as firm in his
rendering of imaginative as of actual truth ; that is to say,
when an idea would have been by a Roman, or Byzantine,
symbolically represented, the Gothic mind realizes it to the
utmost. For instance, t*he purgatorial fire- is represented in
the mosaic of Torcello (Romanesque) as a red stream, longitu-
dinally striped like a riband, descending out of the throne of
Christ, and gradually extending itself to envelope the wicked.
"When we are once informed what this means, it is enough for
* The reader will understand this in a moment by glancing at Plate XX. ,
the last in this volume, where the series 1 to 12 represents the change ia
one kind of leaf, from the Byzantine to the perfect Gothic.
m. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 197
its purpose ; but the Gothic inventor does not leave the sign
in need of interpretation. He makes the tire as like real fire
as he can ; and in the porch of St. Maclou at Rouen the sculp-
tured flames burst out of the Hades gate, and flicker up, in
writhing tongues of stone, through the interstices of the niches,
as if the church itself were on fire. This is an extreme in-
stance, but it is all the more illustrative of the entire difference
in temper and thought between the two schools of art, and of
the intense love of veracity which influenced the Gothic design.
§ LXVI. I do not say that this love of veracity is always
healthy in its operation. I have above noticed the errors into
which it falls from despising design ; and there is another kind
of error noticeable in the instance just given, in which the love
of truth is too hasty, and seizes on a surface truth instead 01
an inner one. For in representing the Hades fire, it is not the
mereybrm of the flame which needs most to be told, but its
unquenchableness, its Divine ordainment and limitation, and
its inner fierceness,' not physical and material, but in being the
expression of the wrath of God. And these things are not to
be told by imitating the fire that flashes out of a bundle of
sticks. If we think over his symbol a little, we shall perhaps
find that the Romanesque builder told more truth in that like-
ness of a blood-red stream, flowing between definite shores and
out of God's throne, and expanding, as if fed by a perpetual
current, into the lake wherein the wicked are cast, than the
Gothic builder in those torch-flickerings about his niches. But
this is not to our immediate purpose ; I am not at present to
insist upon the faults into which the love of truth was led in
the later Gothic times, but on the feeling itself, as a glorious
and peculiar characteristic of the Northern builders. For, ob-
serve, it is not, even in the above instance, love of truth,, but
want of thought, which causes the fault. The love of truth,
as such, is good, but when it is misdirected by thoughtlessness
or over-excited by vanity, and either seizes on facts of small
value, or gathers them chiefly that it may boast of its grasp
and apprehension, its work may well become dull or offensive.
Yet let us not, therefore, blame the inherent love of facts, but
\1
198 SECOND PERIOD. in. NATUKAL1SM.
the incantiousness of their selection, and impertinence of their
statement.
§ LXVII. I said, in the second place, that Gothic wqrk, when
referred to the arrangement of all art. a°, purist, nnitnrnlint, or
sen finalist, was naturalistfl I'lris character Tollows necessarily
on its extreme love ot,truth.uureva,iling over the sense of beauty^
and causing it to take delight in portraiture of every kind, and
to express the various characters of the human countenance
and form, as it did the vari' fi< - <»i' leaves nnd the nu
of branchesT And this tendency is both increased and en-
nobled by tne same Christian humility which we saw expressed
in the first character of Gothic work, its rudeness. For as that
resulted from a humility which confessed the imperfection of
the workman, so this naturalist portraiture is rendered more
faithful by the humility which confesses the imperfection of
the subject. The Greek sculptor could neither bear to confess
his own feebleness, nor to tell the faults of the forms that he
portrayed. But the Christian workman, believing that all is
finally to work together for good, freely confesses both, and
neither seeks to disguise his own roughness of work, nor his
subject's roughness of make. Yet this frankness being joined,
for the most part, with depth of religious feeling in other di-
rections, and especially with charity, there is sometimes a ten-
dency to Purism in the best Gothic sculpture ; so that it fre-
quently reaches great dignity of form and tenderness qi ex-
pression, yet never so as to lose the veracity of portraiture,
wherever portraiture is possible : not exalting its kings into
demi-gods, nor its saints into archangels, but giving what king-
liness and sanctity was in them, to the full, mixed with due
record of their faults ; and this in the most part with a great
indifference like that of Scripture history, which sets down,
with unmoved and unexcusing resoluteness, the virtues and
errors of all men of whom it speaks, often leaving the reader
to form his own estimate of them, without an indication of the
judgment of the historian. And this veracity is carried out by
the Gothic sculptors in the minuteness and generality, as well
as the equity, of their delineation : for they do not limit their
III. NATURALISM. VI. THE XATUKE OF GOTHIC. 190
art to the portraiture of saints and kings, but introduce the
most familiar scenes and moat simple su^jpffo; filling ™p *llf>
backgrounds of Scripture histories with vivid and curious rep-
resentations of the commonest incidents of daily life, and avail-
ing themselves of every occasion in wThich, either as a symbol,
oFan explanation 6T~a scene or time, the things familiar to the
eye of the workman could be introduced and made of account.
Hence Gothic sculpture and painting are not only full of valu-
able portraiture of the greatest men, but copious records of all
the domestic customs and inferior arts of the ages in which it
flourished.*
§ Lxvm. There is, however, one direction in which the
Naturalism of the Gothic workmen is peculiarly manifested ;
and this direction is even more characteristic of the school than
the Naturalism itself ; I mean their peculiar fondness for the
forms of Vegetation. In rendering the various circumstallc'e'g
^of daily life, Egyptian and Ninevite sculpture is as frank and
as diffuse as the Gothic. From the highest pomps of state or
triumphs of battle, to the most trivial domestic arts and amuse-
ments, all is taken advantage of to fill the field of granite with
the perpetual interest of a crowded drama ; and the early Lom-
bardic and Romanesque sculpture is equally copious in its de-
scription of the familiar circumstances of war and the chase.
But in all the scenes portrayed by the workmen of these na-
tions, vegetation occurs only as an explanatory accessory ; the
reed is introduced to mark the course of the river, or the tree
to mark the covert of the wild beast, or the ambush of the
enemy, but there is no especial interest in the forms of the
vegetation strong enough to induce them to make it a subject
of separate and accurate study. Again, among the nations
who followed the arts of design exclusively, the forms of foli-
* The best art either represents the facts of its own day, or, if facts of
the past, expresses them with accessories of the time in which the work was I
done. All good art, representing past events, is therefore full of the most/
frank anachronism, and always ought to be. No painter has any business to/
be an antiquarian. We do not want his impressions or suppositions reJ
specting things that are past. We want his clear assertions respecting
things present.
200 SECOND PERIOD. m. NATURALISM.
age introduced were meagre and general, and their real intri-
cacy and life were neither admired nor expressed. But to the
Gothic workman the living foliage became a subject of intense
affection, and he struggled to render all its characters with as
much accuracy as was compatible with the laws of his design
and the nature of his material, not unf requently tempted in his
enthusiasm to transgress the one and disguise the other.
§ LXIX. There is a peculiar significancy in this, indicative
both of higher civilization and gentler temperament, than had
before been manifested in architecture. Rudeness, and the
love of change, which we have insisted upon as the first ele-
ments of Gothic, are also elements common to all healthy
schools. But here is a softer element mingled with them,
peculiar to the Gothic itself. The rudeness or ignorance which
would have been painfully exposed in the treatment of the
human form, are still not so great as to prevent the successful
rendering of the wayside herbage; and the love of change,
which becomes morbid and feverish in following the haste of
the hunter, and the rage of the combatant, is at once soothed
and satisfied as it watches the wandering of the tendril, and
the budding of the flower. Nor is this all : the new direction
of mental interest marks an infinite change in the means and
the habits of life. The nations whose chief support was in the
chase, whose chief interest was in the battle, whose chief pleas-
ure was in the banquet, would take small care respecting the
shapes of leaves and flowers-; and notice little in the forms of
the forest trees which sheltered them, except the signs indica-
tive of the wood which would make the toughest lance, the
closest roof, or the clearest, fire. The affectionate observation
of the grace and outward character of vegetation is the sure
sign of a more tranquil and gentle existence, sustained by the
gifts, and gladdened by the splendor, of the earth. In that
careful distinction of species, and richness of delicate and un-
disturbed organization, which characterize the Gothic design,
there is the history of rural and thoughtful life, influenced by
habitual tenderness, and devoted to subtle inquiry ; and every
discriminating and delicate touch of the chisel, as it rounds the
III. NATURALISM. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 201
petal or guides the branch, is a prophecy of the developement
of the entire body of the natural sciences, beginning with that
of medicine, of the recovery of literature, and the establish-
ment of the most necessary principles of domestic wisdom and
national peace.
§ LXX. I have before alluded to the strange and vain sup-
position, that the original conception of Gothic architecture
had been derived from vegetation, — from the symmetry of
avenues, and" the interlacing of branches. It is a supposition
which never could have existed for a moment in the mind of
any person acquainted with early Gothic ; but, however idle
as a theory, it is most valuable as a testimony to the character
of the perfected style. "It is precisely because the reverse of
this theory is the fact, because the Gothic did not arise out of,
but develope itself into, a resemblance to vegetation, that this
resemblance is so instructive as an indication of the temper of
the builders. It was no chance suggestion of the form of an
arch from the bending of a bough, but a gradual and continual
discovery of a beauty in natural forms which could be more
and more perfectly transferred into those of stone, that in-
fluenced at once the heart of the people, and the form of the
edifice. The Gothic architecture arose in massy and moun-
tainous strength, axe-hewn, and iron-bound, block heaved upon
block by the monk's enthusiasm and the soldier's force ; and
cramped and stanchioned into such weight of grisly wall, as
might bury the anchoret in darkness, and beat back the utmost
storm of battle, suffering but by the same narrow crosslet the
passing of the sunbeam, or of the arrow. Gradually, as that
monkish enthusiasm became more thoughtful, and as the sound
of war became more and more intermittent beyond the gates
of the convent or the keep, the stony pillar grew slender and
the vaulted roof grew light, till they had wreathed themselves
into the semblance of the summer woods at their fairest, and
of the dead field-flowers, long trodden down in blood, sweet
monumental statues were set to bloom for ever, beneath the
porch of the temple, or the canopy of the tomb.
§ LXXI. Nor is it only as a sign of greater gentleness or
202 SECOND PERIOD. IV. GROTESQUENE8S.
refinement of mind, but as a proof of the best possible direc-
tion of this refinement, that the tendency of the Gothic to the
expression of vegetative life is to be admired. That sentence
of Genesis, " I have given thee every green herb for meat,"
like all the rest of the bcok, has a profound symbolical as well
as a literal meaning. It is not merely the nourishment of, the
body, but the food of the soul, that is intended. The green
herb is, of all nature, that which is most essential to the healthy
spiritual life of man. Most of us do not need fine scenery ;
the precipice and the mountain peak are not intended to, be
seen by all men, — perhaps their power is greatest over those
who are unaccustomed to them. But trees, and fields, and
flowers were made for all, and are necessary for all. God has
connected the labor which is essential to the bodily sustenance,
with the pleasures which are healthiest for the heart ; and
while He made the ground stubborn, He made its herbage
fragrant, and its blossoms fair. The proudest architecture
that man can build has no higher honor than to bear the image
and recall the memory of that grass of the field which is, at
once, the type and the support of his existence ; the goodly
building is then most glorious when it is sculptured into the
likeness of the leaves of Paradise ; and the great Gothic spirit,
as we showed it to be noble in its disquietude, is also noble in its
hold of nature ; it is, indeed, like the dove of Noah, in that she
found no rest upon the face of the waters, — but like her in this
also, " Lo, IN HER MOTTTH WAS AN OLIVE BRANCH, PLUCKED OFF."
§ LXXII. The fourth essential element of the Gothic mind
was above stated to be the sense of the GROTESQUE ; but I shall
defer the endeavor to define this most curious and subtle char-
acter until we have occasion to examine one of the divisions
of the Renaissance schools, which was morbidly influenced by
it (Yol. III. Chap. III.). It is the less necessary to insist upon
it here, because every reader familiar with Gothic architecture
ninnst understand what I mean, and will, I believe, have no
hesitation in admitting that the tendency to delight in fantastic
and ludicrous, as well as in sublime, images, is a universal
instinct of the Gothic imagination.
V. KIGIDITV.
LXXIII.
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
203
The
fifth element above nainedcw,
must endeavor carefully to
and this character I
neither the word I have used, nor any other that I can think
of, will express it accurately. For I mean, not merely stable,
but active rigidity ; the peculiar energy which gives tension to
mm'UHlent,_jincl_sri:hW^ fiercest
Jightning forked rather than curved, and the stoutest oak-
brancliangu larTatKer than bending, and is as much seen in
the quivering of the lance as in the glittering of the icicle.
§ LXXIV. I have before had occasion (Yol. I. Chap. XIII.
§ vii.) to note some manifestations of this energy or fixedness ;
but it must be still more attentively considered here, as it
shows itself throughout the whole structure and decoration of
Gothic work. Egyptian and Greek buildings stand, for the
most part, by their own weight and mass, one stone passively
incumbent on another : but in the Gothic vaults and traceries
there is a stiffness analogous to that of the bones of a limb, or
fibres of a tree ; an elastic tension_and communication of force
from part to part, and also a studious expression of this through-
out every visible line of the building. And, in like manner,
the Greek and Egyptian ornament is either mere surface
engraving, as if the face of the wall had been stamped with a
seal, or its lines are flowing, lithe, and luxuriant ; in either case,
there is no expression of energy in framework of the ornament
itself. But the Gothic ornament stands out in prickly inde-'
pendence, and frosty fortitude, jutting into crockets, and freez-j
ing into pinnacles ; here starting up into a monster, there ger-
minating into a blossom ; anon knitting itself into a branch^
alternately thorny, bossy, and bristly, or writhed into
.
form of nervous entanglement ; but, even when most gracefu
never for an instant languid, always quickset ; erring, if at al
ever on the side of brusquerie.
§ LXXV. The feelings or habits in the workman which give
rise to this character in the work, are snore complicated and
various than those indicated by any other sculptural expression
hitherto named. There is, first, the habit of hard and rapid
working; the industry of the tribes of the JNlorth,
ft
,'
204 SECOXD PKRIOD. V. RIGIDITY.
by the coldness of the climate, and giving an expression of
sharp energy to all they do (as above noted, Vol. I. Chap.
XIII. § vii.), as opposed to the languor of the Southern tribes,
however much of lire there may be in the heart of tb.at langour,
for lava itself may flow languidly. There is also the habit of
finding enjoyment in the signs of cold, which is never found,
I believe, in the inhabitants of countries south of the Alps.
Cold is to them an unredeemed evil, to be suffered, and for-
gotten as soon as may be ; but the long winter of the North,
forces the Goth (I mean the Englishman, Frenchman, Dane,
or German), if he wrould lead a happy life at all, to find sources
of happiness in foul weather as well as fair, and to rejoice in
the leafless as well as in the shady forest. And this we do
with all our hearts ; finding perhaps nearly as much content-
ment by the Christmas fire as in the summer sunshine, and
gaining health and strength on the ice-fields of winter, as well
as among the meadows of spring. So that there is nothing
adverse or painful to our feelings in the cramped and stiffened
structure of vegetation checked by cold ; and instead of seek-
ing, like the Southern sculptor, to express only the softness of
leafage nourished in all tenderness, and tempted into all luxuri-
ance by warm winds and glowing rays, we find pleasure in
dwelling upon the crabbed, perverse, and morose animation of
plants that have known little kindness from earth or heaven,
but, season after season, have had their best efforts palsied by
frost, their brightest buds buried under snow, and their good-
liest limbs lopped by tempest.
§ LXXVI. There are many subtle sympathies and affection?
which join to confirm the Gothic mind in this peculiar choice
of subject ; and when we' add to the influence of these, the
necessities consequent upon the employment of a rougher
material, compelling the workman to seek for vigor of effect,
rather than refinement of texture or accuracy of form, we
have direct and manifest causes for much of the difference
between the northern and southern cast of conception : but
there are indirect causes holding a far more important place
in tiie Gothic heart, though less immediate in their influence
V. RIGIDITY. VI. THE NATURE Of GOTHIC. 205
on design. Strength of will, independence of character, reso- (
lateness of purpose, impatience of undue control, and that i
general tendency to set the individual reason against authority, .• ;
and the individual deed against destiny, which, in the Northern
tribes, has opposed itself throughout all ages to the languid
submission, in the Southern, of thought to tradition, and pur-
pose to fatality, are all more or less traceable in the rigid
lines, vigorous and various masses, and daringly projecting and
independent structure of the Northern Gothic ornament:
while the opposite feelings are in like manner legible in the
graceful and softly guided waves and wreathed bands, in which
Southern decoration is constantly disposed ; in its tendency to
lose its independence, and .fuse itself into the surface of the
masses upon which it is traced ; and in the expression seen so
often, in the arrangement of those masses themselves, of an
abandonment of their strength to an inevitable necessity, or a
listless repose.
§ LXXVII. There is virtue in the measure, and error in the
excess, of both these characters of mind, and in both of the
styles which they have created ; the best architecture, and the
best temper, are those which unite them both ; and this fifth
impulse of the Gothic heart is therefore that which needs most
caution in its indulgence. It is more definitely Gothic than
any other, but the best Gothic building is not that which is
most Gothic : it can hardly be too frank in its confession of
rudeness, hardly too rich in its changefulness, hardly too faith-
ful in its naturalism ; but it may go too far in its rigidity, and,
like the great Puritan spirit in its extreme, lose itself either
in frivolity of division, or perversity of purpose.* It actually
did so in its later times ; but it is gladdening to remember
that in its utmost nobleness, the very temper which lias been
* See the account of the meeting at Talla Linns, in 1682, given in t? a
fourth chapter of the "Heart of Midlothian." At length they arrived &t
the conclusion that " they who owned (or allowed) such names as Monday,
Tuesday, January, February, and so forth, served themselves heirs to the
same if not greater punishment than had been denounced against the idola
ters of old."
206 SECOXD PERIOD. VI. REDUNDANCE.
thought most adverse to it, the Protestant spirit of self-de-
pendence and inquiry, was expressed in its every line. Faith
and aspiration there were, in every Christian ecclesiastical
building, from the first century to the fifteenth ; but the mural
habits to which England in this age owes the kind of greatness
that she has, — the habits of philosophical investigation, of ac-
curate thought, of domestic seclusion and independence, of
stern self-reliance, and sincere upright searching into religious
truth, — were only traceable in the features which were the
distinctive creation of the Gothic schools, in the veined foliage.
and thorny fret-work, and shadowy niche, and buttressed pier,
and fearless height of subtle pinnacle and crested tower, sent
like an " unperpkxed question up to Heaven." *
§ Lxxvin. VLast^because tbg-lcffltt. p.s«pntial,- of the
ent j?lementsx°oiihis noble school, was placed t'kat
^ANCE^-the uncalculating bestowal of the wealth of its labor.
There is. indeed, much (i<>thic. and tlmt of the best period, in
which this element is hardly traceable, and which depends for
its effect almost exclusively on loveliness of simple design and
grace of uninvolved proportion : still, in the most character-
, istic buildings, a certain portion of their effect depends upon
.icp.rmrmktipn of ornament ; and many of those which have
most influence on the minds of men, have attained it by means
of this attribute alone. And although, by careful study of the
school, it is possible to arrive at a condition of taste which
shall be better contented by a few perfect lines than by a
whole facade covered with fretwork, the building which only
satisfies such a taste is not to be considered the best. For the
very first requirement of Gothic architecture being, as we saw
above, that it shall both admit the aid, and appeal to the ad-
miration, of the rudest as well as the most refined minds, the
richness of the work is, paradoxical as the statement may ap-
pear, a part of its humility. /No arcmTectnfe is so luuiglitv ;,s
* See the beautiful description of Florence in Elizabeth Browning's "Casa
Guidi Windows," which is not only a noble poem, but the only book I have
seen which, favoring the Liberal cause in Italy, gives a just account of the
incapacities of the modern Italian.
VI. REDUNDANCE. VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
tlia.twTiinh.is simple: which rff"«p-a *n
.
vp. except
in a few clear and forceful lines; which implies, in o tiering so
little to onr regards, that all it has offered is perfect/ and difr
complexity or the attractiveness of its fea-
it)
tures, to embarrass our investigation, or betray us into delight.
That humility, which is the very life of the Gothic school, is
shown not only in the imperfection, but in the accumulation,
of ornament. The inferior rank of the workman is often
shown as much in the richness, as the roughness, of his work ;
and if the co-operation of every hand, and the sympathy of
every heart, are to be received, we must be content to allow
the redundance which disguises the failur
_the regard of thQ^na
)er interests mingling, 1111 The Irothic heart, with the rude
love of decorative accumulation : a magnificent enthusiasm,
which feels as if it never could do enough to reach the fulness)
of its ideal :
the
nns
are
mjfiiiullr*/ profound sympathy with the fulnee
wealth of the material nnivprge^ rising out of that Natural)
"
^^^^^^^ . _ ^~~
The sculptor who sought for his models among the forest
leaves, could not but quickly and deeply feel that complexity
need not involve the loss of grace, nor richness that of repose ;
and every hour which he spent in the study of the minute and
various work of Nature, made him feel more forcibly the bar-
renness of what was best in that of man : nor is it to be won-
dered at, that, seeing her perfect and exquisite creations poured
forth in a profusion which conception could not grasp nor cal-
culation sum, he should think that it ill became him to be
niggardly of his own rude craftsmanship ; and where he saw
throughout the universe a faultless beauty lavished on meas-
ureless spaces of broidered field and blooming mountain, to
grudge his poor and imperfect labor to the few stones that he
had raised one upon another, for habitation or memorial. The
years of his life passed away before his task was accomplished ;
but gensration succeeded" generation with unwearied enthusi-
208 SECOND PERIOD.
asm, and the cathedral front was at last lost in the tapestry of
its traceries, like a rock among the thickets and herbage of
i pring.
§ LXXIX. We have now, I believe, obtained a view ap-
)roaehing to completeness of the various .moral oiumaginaQve
wh'ich composed the inner spirit of Gothic arcni
W g "have, in the second place, to define its outward
form.
Now, as the Gothic spirit is made up of several elements,
some of which may, in particular examples, be wanting, so
the Gothic form is made up of minor conditions of form,
some of which may, in particular examples, be imperfectly
developed.
"We cannot say, therefore, that a building is either Gothic
or not Gothic in form, any more than we can in spirit. We
can only say that it is more or less Gothic, in proportion to
the number of Gothic forms which it unites.
§ LXXX. There have been made lately many subtle and
ingenious endeavors to base the definition of Gothic form
entirely upon the roof - vaulting ; endeavors which are both
forced and futile : for many of the best Gothic buildings in
the world have roofs of timber, which have no more connexion
with the main structure of the walls of the edifice than a hat
has with that of the head it protects ; and other Gothic build-
ings are merely enclosures of spaces, as ramparts and walls,
or enclosures of gardens or cloisters, and have no roofs at all,
in the sense in which the word "roof" is commonly accepted.
But every reader who has ever taken the slightest interest in
architecture must know that there is a great popular impres-
sion on this matter, which maintains itself stiffly in its old
form, in spite of all ratiocination and definition ; namely, that
a flat lintel from pillar to pillar is Grecian, a round arch Nor-
man or Romanesque, and a pointed arch Gothic.
And the old popular notion, as far as it goes, is perfectly
right, and can never be bettered. The most striking outward
feature in all Gothic architecture is, that it is composed of
pointed arches, as in Romanesque that it is in like manner
VI. THE NATUKE OF GOTHIC. 209
composed of round ; and this distinction would be quite as
clear, though the roofs were taken off every cathedral in
Ns£urope. And yet, if we examine carefully into the real force
and meaning of the term " roof" we shall perhaps be able to
retain the old popular idea in a definition of Gothic architec-
ture which shall also express whatever dependence that archi-
tecture has upon true forms of roofing.
§ LXXXI. In Chap. XIII. of the first volume, the reader
will remember that roofs were considered as generally divided
into two parts ; the roof proper, that is to say, the shell, vault,
or ceiling, internally visible; and the roof -mask, which pro-
tects this lower roof from the weather. In some buildings
these parts are united in one framework ; but, in most, they
are more or less independent of each other, and in nearly
all Gothic buildings there is considerable interval between
them.
Now it will often happen, as above noticed, that owing to
the nature of the apartments required, or the materials at
hand, the roof proper may be flat, coved, or domed, in build-
ings which in their walls employ pointed arches, and are, in
the straitest sense of the word, Gothic in all other respects.
Yet so far forth as the roofing alone is concerned, they are
not Gothic unless the pointed arch be the principal form
adopted either in the stone vaulting or the timbers of the roof
proper.
I shall say then, in the first place, that " Gothic architecture
is that which uses, if possible, the pointed arch in the roof
proper." This is the first step in our definition.
§ LXXXII. Secondly. Although there may be many advis-
able or necessary forms for the lower roof or ceiling, there is,
in cold countries exposed to rain and snow, only one advisable
form for the roof-mask, and that is the gable, for this alone
will throw off both rain and snow from all parts of its surface
as speedily as possible. Snow can lodge on the top of a dome,
not on the ridge of a gable. And thus, as far as roofing is
concerned, the gable is a far more essential feature of Northern
architecture than the pointed vault, for the one is a thorough
210 SECOND PERIOD.
necessity, the other often a graceful conventionality : the gable
occurs in the timber roof of every dwelling-house and every
cottage, but not the vault ; and the gable built on a polygonal
or circular plan, is the origin of the turret and spire ; * and all
the so-called aspiration of Gothic architecture is, as above
noticed (Vol. I. Chap. XII. § vi.), nothing more than its de-
velopement. So that we must add to our definition another
clause, which will be, at present, by far the most important,
and it will stand thus : " Gothic architecture is that which uses
the pointed arch for the roof proper, and the gable for the
roof-mask."
§ Lxxxm. And here, in passing, let us notice a principle as
true in architecture as in morals. It is not the compelled^ but
the wilful, transgression of law which corrupts the character.
Sin is not in the act, but in the choice. It is a law for Gothic
architecture, that it shall use the pointed arch for its roof
proper ; but because, in many cases of domestic building, this
becomes impossible for want of room (the whole height of the
apartment being required everywhere), or in various other
ways inconvenient, flat ceilings may be used, and yet the
Gothic shall not lose its purity. But in the roof-mask, there
can be no necessity nor reason for a change of form : the gable
is the best; and if any other — dome, or bulging crown, or
whatsoever else — be employed at all, it must be in pure
caprice, and wilful transgression of law. And wherever,
therefore, this is done, the Gothic lias lost its character ; it is
pure Gothic no more.
§ LXXXIV. And this last clause of the definition is to be
more strongly insisted upon, because it includes multitudes of
buildings, especially domestic, which are Gothic in spirit, but
which we are not in the habit of embracing in our general con-
ception of Gothic architecture ; multitudes of street dwelling-
houses and straggling country farm-houses, built with little
care for beauty, or observance of Gothic laws in vaults or
windows, and yet maintaining their character by the sharp
* Salisbury spire is only a tower with a polygonal gabled roof of stone,
and so also the celebrated spires of Caen and Coutauces.
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 211
and quaint gables of the roofs. And, for the reason just
given, a house is far more Gothic which has square windows,
and a boldly gabled roof, than the one which has pointed
arches for the windows, and a domed or flat roof. For it
often happened in the best Gothic times, as it must in all
times, that it was more easy and convenient to make a window
square than pointed ; not but that, as above emphatically
stated, the richness of church architecture was also found in
domestic; and systematically "when the pointed arch was
used in the church it was used in the street," only in all times
there were cases in which men Fig
could not build as they would, and
were obliged to construct their
doors or windows in the readiest
way ; and this readiest way was
then, in small work, as it will be
to the end of time, to put a flat stone for a lintel and build the
windows as in Fig. VIII. ; and the occurrence of such win-
dows in a building or a street will not un-Gothicize them, so
long as the bold gable roof be retained, and the spirit of the
work be visibly Gothic in other respects. But if the roof be
wilfully and conspicuously of any other form than the gable,
— if it be domed, or Turkish, or Chinese, — the building has
positive corruption mingled with its Gothic elements, in pro-
portion to the conspicuousness of the roof ; and, if not abso-
lutely un-Gothicized, can maintain its character only by such
vigor of vital Gothic energy in other parts as shall cause the
roof to be forgotten, thrown off like an eschar from the living
frame. Nevertheless, we must always admit that it may be
forgotten, and that if the Gothic seal be indeed set firmly on the
walls, we are not to cavil at the forms reserved for the .tiles
and leads. For, observe, as our definition at present stands,
being understood of large roofs only, it will allow a conical
glass-furnace to be a Gothic building, but will not allow so
much, either of the Duomo of Florence, or the Baptistery of
Pisa. We must either mend it, therefore, or understand it in
some broader sense.
212 SECOND PERIOD.
§ LXXXV. And now, if the reader will look back to the fifth
paragraph of Chap. III. Vol. I., he will find that I carefully
extended my definition of a roof so as to include more than is
usually understood by the term. It was there said to be the
covering of a space, narrow or wide. It does not in the least
signify, with respect to the real nature of the covering, whether
the space protected be two feet wide, or ten ; though in the
one case we call the protection an arch, in the other a vault
or roof. But the real point to be considered is, the manner in
which this protection stands, and not whether it is narrow or
broad. We call the vaulting of a bridge " an arch," because it
is narrow with respect to the river it crosses ; but if it were
built above us on the ground, we should call it a waggon vault,
because then we should feel the breadth of it. The real ques-
tion is the nature of the curve, not the extent of space over
which it is carried : and this is more the case with respect to
Gothic than to any other architecture; for, in the greater
number of instances, the form of the roof is entirely dependent
on the ribs ; the domical shells being constructed in all kinds
of inclinations, quite undeterminable by tne eye, and all that
is definite in their character being fixed by the curves of the
ribs.
§ LXXXVI. Let us then consider our definition as .including
the narrowest arch, or tracery bar, as well as the broadest roof,
and it will be nearly a perfect one. For the fact is, that all
good Gothic is nothing more than the developement, in various
ways, and on every conceivable scale, of the group formed by
the pointed arch for the bearing line below, and the gable for
the protecting Ivne above; and from the huge, gray,
Fig. ix. ghaiy g|0pe Qj t|ie ^^^^1 roof, with its elastic
pointed vaults beneath, to the slight crown-like
points that enrich the smallest niche of its doorway,
one law and one expression will be found in all.
The modes of support and of decoration are in-
finitely various, but the real character of the build-
ing, in all good Gothic, depends upon the single lines of the
gable over the pointed arch, Fig. IX., endlessly rearranged or
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
213
repeated. Tlie larger woodcut,
Fig. X., represents three character-
istic conditions of the treatment of
the group : a, from a tomb at Ve-
rona (1328) ; b, one of the lateral
porches at Abbeville ; c, one of
the uppermost points of the great
western facade of Rouen Cathe-
dral ; both these last being, I be-
lieve, early work of the fifteenth
century. The forms of the pure
early English and French Gothic
are too well known to need any
notice ; my reason will appear
presently for choosing, by way of
example, these somewhat rare con-
ditions.
§ LXXXVH. But, first, let us try
whether we cannot get the forms
of the other great architectures of
the world broadly expressed by re-
lations of the same lines into which
we have compressed the Gothic.
We may easily do this if the reader
will first allow me to remind him
of the true nature of the pointed
arch, as it was expressed in § x.
Chap. X. of the first volume. It
was said there, that it ought to be
called a " curved gable," for, strict-
ly speaking, an " arch " cannot be
" pointed." The so-called pointed
arch ought always to be considered
as a gable, with its sides curved in
order to enable them to bear pres-
sure from without. Thus consid-
ering it, there are but three ways
Eg- X.
214 SECOND PERIOD.
.in which an interval between piers can be bridged, — the three
ways represented by A, B, and c, Fig. XL,* on page 213, — A, the
lintel ; B, the round arch ; c, the gable. All the architects in
the world will never discover any other ways of bridging a
space than these three ; they may vary the curve of the arch,
or curve the sides of the gable, or break them ; but in doing
this they are merely modifying or subdividing, not adding to
the generic forms.
§ LXXXVIII. Now there are three good architectures in the
world, and there never can be more, correspondent to each of
these three simple ways of covering in a space, which is the
original function of all architectures. And those three archi-
tectures are pure exactly in proportion to the simplicity and
directness with which they express the condition of roofing on
which they are founded. They have many interesting varieties,
according to their scale, manner of decoration, and character of
the nations by whom they are practised, but all their varieties
are finally referable to the three great heads : —
A, Greek : Architecture of the Lintel.
B, Romanesque : Architecture of the Round Arch,
c, Gothic : Architecture of the Gable.
Fig. XI.
The three names, Greek, Romanesque, and Gothic, are
indeed inaccurate when used in this vast sense, because they
imply national limitations; but the three architectures may
nevertheless not unfitly receive their names from those nations
by whom they were carried to the highest perfections. "We
may thus briefly state their existing varieties.
§ LXXXIX. A. GREEK : Lintel Architecture. The worst of
the three ; and, considered with reference to stone construc-
tion, always in some measure barbarous. Its simplest type is
* Or by the shaded portions of Fig. XXIX. Vol. I.
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 215
Stonehenge ; its most refined, the Parthenon ; its noblest, the
Temple of Kamak.
In the hands of the Egyptian, it is sublime ; in those of the
Greek, pure ; in those of the Roman, rich ; and in those of the
Renaissance builder, effeminate.
B. ROMANESQUE : Round-arch Architecture. Never thor-
oughly developed until Christian times. It falls into two
great branches, Eastern and Western, or Byzantine and Lom-
bardic ; changing respectively in process of time, with certain
helps from each other, into Arabian Gothic and Teutonic
Gothic. Its most perfect Lombardic type is the Duomo of
Pisa ; its most perfect Byzantine type (I believe), St. Mark's at
Yenice. Its highest glory is, that it has no corruption. It per-
ishes in giving birth to another architecture as noble as itself.
c. Goxiiic : Architecture of the Gable. The daughter of
the Romanesque ; and, like the Romanesque, divided into two
great branches, Western and Eastern, or pure Gothic and
Arabian Gothic; of which the latter is called Gothic, only
because it has many Gothic forms, pointed arches, vaults, &c.,
but its spirit remains Byzantine, more especially in the form
of the roof -mask, of which, with respect to these three great
families, we have next to determine the typical form.
§ xc. For, observe, the distinctions we have hitherto been
stating, depend on the form of the stones first laid from pier
to pier; that is to say, of the simplest condition of roofs
proper. Adding the relations of the roof-mask to these lines,
we shall have the perfect type of form for each school.
In the Greek, the Western Romanesque, and Western
Gothic, the roof -mask is the Fig. xn.
gable : in the Eastern Roman-
esque, and Eastern Gothic, it
is the dome : but I have not
studied the roofing of either
of these last two groups, and "
shall not venture to generalize O> be
them in a diagram. But the three groups, in the hands of
the Western builders, may be thus simply represented : a, Fig.
216 SECOND PERIOD.
XII., Greek ;* b, "Western Romanesque ; <?, Western, or true,
Gothic.
Now, observe, first, that the relation of the roof -mask to the
roof proper, in the Greek type, forms that pediment which
gives its most striking character to the temple, and is the
principal recipient of its sculptural decoration. The relation
of these lines, therefore, is just as important in the Greek as in
the Gothic schools.
§ xci. Secondly, the reader must observe the difference of
steepness in the Romanesque and Gothic gables. This is not
an unimportant distinction, nor an undecided one. The
Romanesque gable does not pass gradually into the more ele-
vated form; there is a great gulf
between the two ; the whole ef-
fect of all Southern architecture
being dependent upon the use
of the flat gable, and of all
Northern upon that of the
acute. I need not here dwell
upon the difference between the
lines of an Italian village, or the
flat tops of most Italian towers,
and the peaked gables and
spires of the North, attaining
their most fantastic developement, I believe, in Belgium :
but it may be well to state the law of separation, namely, that
a Gothic gable must have all its angles acute, and a Roman-
* The reader is not to suppose that Greek architecture had always, or
often, flat ceilings, because I call its lintel the roof proper. He must re-
member I always use these terms of the first simple arrangements of mate-
rials that bridge a space; bringing in the real roof afterwards, if I can. In
the case of Greek temples it would be vain to refer their structure to the
real roof, for many were hypaethral, and without a roof at all. I am un-
fortunately more ignorant of Egyptian roofing than even of Arabian, so
that I cannot bring this school into the diagram; but the gable appears to
have been magnificently used for a bearing roof. Vide Mr. Fergusson's
section of the Pyramid of Geezeh, " Principles of Beauty in Art," Plate L,
and his expressions of admiration of Egyptian roof masonry, page 201.
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTIIIC. 217
esque one must have the upper one obtuse : or, to give the reader
a simple practical rule, take any gable, a or 5, Fig. XIII., and
strike a semicircle on its base ; if its top rises above the semi-
circle, as at b, it is a Gothic gable ; if it falls beneath it, a
Romanesque one ; but the best forms in each group are those
which are distinctly steep, or distinctly low. In the figure f
is, perhaps, the average of Romanesque slope, and g of Gothic.
§ xcn. But although we do not find a transition from one
school into the other in the slope of the gables, there is often a
confusion between the two schools in the association of the
gable with the arch below it. It has just been stated that the
pure Romanesque condition is the round arch under the low
gable, a, Fig. XIV., and the pure Gothic condition is the point-
ed arch under the high gable, b. But in the passage from one
style to the other, we sometimes find the two conditions re-
versed ; the pointed arch under a low gable, as d, or the round
arch under a high gable, as c. The f orm d occurs in the tombs
of Yerona, and c in the doors of Venice.
Fig. XIV.
§ xcm. "We have thus determined the relation of Gothic to
the other architectures of the world, as far as regards the main
lines of its construction ; but there is still one word which
needs to be added to our definition of its form, with respect to
a part of its decoration, which rises out of that construction.
We have seen that the first condition of its form is, that it
shall have pointed arches. When Gothic is perfect, therefore,
it will follow that the pointed arches must be built in the
strongest possible manner.
218
SECOND PERIOD.
Fig. XV.
Now, if the reader will look back to Chapter XI. of Vol.
I., he will find the subject of the masonry of the pointed
arch discussed at length, and
the conclusion deduced, that
of all possible forms of the
pointed arch (a certain weight
of material being given), that
generically represented at <?,
Fig. XV., is the strongest.
In fact, the reader can see in
a moment that the weakness
of the pointed arch is in its
flanks, and that by merely
thickening them gradually at
this point all chance of frac-
ture is removed. Or, per-
haps, more simply still : — Sup-
pose a gable built of stone, as
at #, and pressed upon from
without by a weight in the di-
rection of the arrow, clearly it
would be liable to fall in, as at
I. To prevent this, we make a pointed arch of it, as at c; and
now it cannot fall inwards, but if pressed upon from above
may give way outwards, as at d. But at last we build as at «?,
and now it can neither fall out nor in.
§ xciv. The forms of arch thus obtained, with a pointed
projection called a cusp on each side, must for ever be delight-
ful to the human mind, as' being expressive of the utmost
strength and permanency obtainable with a given mass of
material. But it was not by any such process of reasoning,
nor with any reference to laws of construction, that the cusp
was originally invented. It is merely the special application
to the arch of the great ornamental system of FOLIATION ; or
the adaptation of the forms of leafage which has been above
insisted upon as the principal characteristic of Gothic Natural-
ism. This love of foliage was exactly proportioned, in its
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
219
Fig. XVI.
intensity, to the increase of strength in the Gothic spirit : in
the Southern Gothic it is soft leafage that is most loved ; in the
Northern thorny leafage. And if we
take up any JS'orthern illuminated man-
uscript of the great Gothic time, we
shall find every one of its leaf orna-
ments surrounded by a thorny structure
laid round it in gold or in color ; some-
times apparently copied faithfully from
the prickly developement of the root of
the leaf in the thistle, running along
the stems and branches exactly as the
fliistle leaf does along its own stem,
and with sharp spines proceeding from
the points, as in Fig. XVI. At other
times, and for the most part in work in the thirteenth century,
the golden ground takes the form of pure arid severe cusps,
sometimes enclosing the leaves, sometimes filling up the forks
of the branches (as in the example fig. 1, Plate I. Vol. III.),
passing imperceptibly from the distinctly vegetable con-
dition (in which it is just as cer-
tainly representative of the thorn,
as other parts of the design are of
the bud, leaf, and fruit) into the
crests on the necks, or the mem-
branous sails of the wings, of ser-
pents, dragons, and other gro-
tesques, as in Fig. XVII., and into
rich and vague fantasies of curva-
ture ; among which, however, the
pure cusped system of the pointed
arch is continually discernible, not
accidentally, but designedly indicated, and connecting itself
with the literally architectural portions of the design.
§ xcv. The system, then, of what is called Foliation, wheth-
er simple, as in the cusped arch, or complicated, as in tracery,
rose out of this love of leafage ; not that the form of the arch
Fig. XVII.
220 SECOND PERIOD.
is intended to imitate a leaf, but to be invested with the sa/ine
characters of beauty which the designer had discovered in the
leaf. Observe, there is a wide difference between these two
intentions. The idea that large Gothic structure, in arches
and roofs, was intended to imitate vegetation is, as above
noticed, untenable for an instant in the front of facts. But
the Gothic builder perceived that, in the leaves which he
copied for his minor decorations, there was a peculiar beauty,
arising from certain characters of curvature in outline, and
certain methods of subdivision and of radiation in structure.
On a small scale, in his sculptures and his missal-painting, he
copied the leaf or thorn itself; on a large scale he adopted
from it its abstract sources of beauty, and gave the same kinds
of curvatures and the same species of subdivision to the out-
line of his arches, so far as was consistent with their strength,
never, in any single instance, suggesting the resemblance to
leafage by irregularity of outline, but keeping the structure
perfectly simple, and, as we have seen, so consistent with the
best principles of masonry, that in the finest Gothic designs of
arches, which are always single cusped (the cinquefoiled arch
being licentious, though in early work often very lovely), it is
literally impossible, without consulting the context of the
building, to say whether the cusps have been added for the
sake of beauty or of strength ; nor, though in mediaeval archi-
tecture they were, I believe, assuredly first employed in mere
love of their picturesque form, am I absolutely certain that
their earliest invention was not a structural effort. For the
earliest cusps with which I am acquainted are those used in
the vaults of the great galleries of the Serapeum, discovered
in 1850 by M. Maniette at Memphis, and described by Colonel
Hamilton in a paper read in February last before the Royal
Society of Literature.* The roofs of its galleries were admi-
rably shown in Colonel Hamilton's drawings made to scale
upon the spot, and their profile is a cusped round arch, per-
* See 'Athenaeum,' March 5th, 1853.
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC;
221
Fig. xvm.
fectly pure and simple ; but whether thrown into this form for
the sake of strength or of grace, I am unable to say.
§ xcvi. It is evident, however, that the structural advantage
of the cusp is available only in the case of arches on a com-
paratively small scale. If the arch becomes very large, the
projections under the flanks must become too ponderous to be
secure ; the suspended weight of stone would be liable to break
off, and such arches are therefore never constructed with heavy
cusps, but rendered secure by general mass of masonry ; and
what additional appearance of support may be thought neces-
sary (sometimes a considerable degree of actual support) is
given by means of tracery.
§ xcvii. Of what I stated in the second chapter of the
" Seven Lamps " respecting the nature of tracery, I need re-
peat here only this much, that it began in the use of penetra-
tions through the stonework
of windows or walls, cut into
forms which looked like stars
when seen from within, and
like leaves when seen from
without : the name foil or
feuille being universally ap-
plied to the separate lobes of
their extremities, and the
pleasure received from them
being the same as that which
we feel in the triple, quadru-
ple, or other radiated leaves
of vegetation, joined with the
perception of a severely ge-
ometrical order and symmetry.
A few of the most common
forms are represented, uncon-
fused by exterior mouldings,
in Fig. XVIIL, and the best
traceries are nothing more than close clusters of such forms,
with mouldings following their outlines.
222
SECOND PERIOD.
§ xcvui. The term " foliated," therefore, is equally descrip-
tive of the most perfect conditions both of the simple arch and
of the traceries by which, in later Gothic, it is filled ; and this
foliation is an essential character of the style. No Gothic is
either good or characteristic which is not foliated either in its
arches or apertures. Sometimes the bearmg arches are foliated,
and the ornamentation above composed of figure sculpture;
sometimes the bearing arches are plain, and the ornamentation
above them is composed of foliated apertures. But the element
of foliation must enter somewhere, or the style is imperfect.
And our final definition of Gothic will, therefore, stand
thus : —
, "Foliated Architecture, which uses the pointed arch for
the roof proper, and the gable for the roof-mask."
xcix. And now there is but one point more to be exam-
ined, and we have done.
Foliation, while it is the most distinctive and peculiar, is
also the easiest method of decoration which Gothic architecture
possesses ; and, although in
the disposition of the pro-
portions and forms of foils,
the most noble imagination
may be shown, yet a build-
er without imagination at
all, or any other faculty of
design, can produce some
effect upon the mass of his
work by merely covering
it with foolish foliation.
Throw any number of
crossing lines together at
random, as in Fig. XIX.,
and fill their squares and
oblong openings with quatrefoils and cinquefoils, and you will
immediately have what will stand, with most people, for very
satisfactory Gothic. The slightest possible acquaintance with
existing forms will enable any architect to vary his patterns of
Fig. XIX.
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. . 223
foliation with as much ease as he would those of a kaleidoscope,
and to produce a building which the present European public
will think magnificent, though there may not be, from founda-
tion to coping, one ray of invention, or any other intellectual
merit, in the whole mass of it. But floral decoration, and the
disposition of mouldings, require some skill and thought ; and,
if they are to be agreeable at all, must be verily invented, or
accurately copied. They cannot be drawn altogether at ran-
dom, without becoming so commonplace as to involve detec-
tion : and although, as I have just said, the noblest imagination
may be shown in the dispositions of traceries, there is far
more room for its play and power when those traceries are
associated with floral or animal ornament ; and it is probable,
d priori, that, wherever true invention exists, such ornament
will be employed in profusion.
§ c. Now, all Gothic may be divided into two vast schools,
one early, the other late ; * of which the former, noble, inven-
tive, and progressive, uses the element of foliation moderately,
that of floral and figure sculpture decoration profusely ; the
latter, ignoble, uninventive, and declining, uses foliation im-
moderately, floral and figure sculpture subordinately. The
two schools touch each other at that instant of momentous
change, dwelt upon in the " Seven Lamps," chap, ii., a period
later or earlier in different districts, but which may be broadly
stated as the middle of the fourteenth century ; both styles
being, of course, in their highest excellence at the moment
when they meet, the one ascending to the point of junction,
the one declining from it, but, at first, not in any marked
degree, and only showing the characters which justify its being
above called, generically, ignoble, as its declension reaches
steeper slope.
§ ci. Of these two great schools, the first uses foliation
only in large and simple masses, and covers the minor mem-
* Late, and chiefly confined to Northern countries, so that the two
schools may be opposed either as Early and Late Gothic, or (in the four-
teenth century) as Southern aucl Northern Gothic.
224: SECOND PERIOD.
bers, cusps, &c., of that foliation, with various sculpture. The
latter decorates foliation itself with minor foliation, and breaks
its traceries into endless and lace-like subdivision of tracery.
A few instances will explain the difference clearly. Fig.
2, Plate XII. , represents half of an eight-foiled aperture from
Salisbury ; where the element of foliation is employed in the
larger disposition of the starry form; but in the decoration
of the cusp it has entirely disappeared, and the ornament is
floral.
But in fig. 1, which is part of a fringe round one of the
later windows in Rouen Cathedral, the foliation is first carried
boldly round the arch, and then each cusp of it divided into
other forms of foliation. The two larger canopies of niches
below, figs. 5 and 6, are respectively those seen at the flanks
of the two uppermost examples of gabled Gothic in Fig. X.,
p. 213. Those examples were there chosen in order also to
illustrate the distinction in the character of ornamentation
which we are at present examining; and if the reader will
look back to them, and compare their methods of treatment,
he will at once be enabled to fix that distinction clearly in his
mind. He will observe that in the uppermost the element
of foliation is scrupulously confined to the bearing arches of
the gable, and of the lateral niches, so that, on any given side
of the monument, only three foliated arches are discernible.
All the rest of the ornamentation is " bossy sculpture," set on
the broad marble surface. On the point of the gable are set
the shield and dog-crest of the Scalas, with its bronze wings,
as of a dragon, thrown out from it on either side ; below, an
admirably sculptured oak-tree fills the centre of the field;
beneath it is the death of Abel, Abel lying dead upon his face
on one side, Cain opposite, looking up to heaven in terror : the
border of the arch is formed of various leafage, alternating
with the scala shield ; and the cusps are each filled by one
flower, and two broad flowing leaves. The whole is exquis-
itely relieved by color ; the ground being of pale red Yerona
marble, and the statues and foliage of white Carrara marble,
inlaid.
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC. 225
§ cii. The figure below it, J, represents the southern lateral
door of the principal church in Abbeville : the smallness of
the scale compelled me to make it somewhat heavier in the
lines of its traceries than it is in reality, but the door itself is
one of the most exquisite pieces of flamboyant Gothic in the
world ; and it is interesting to see the shield introduced here,
at the point of the gable, in exactly the same manner as in the
upper example, and with precisely the same purpose, — to stay
the eye in its ascent, and to keep it from being offended by
the sharp point of the gable, the reversed angle of the shield
being so energetic as completely to balance the upward ten-
dency of the great convergent lines. It will be seen, however,
as this example is studied, that its other decorations are alto-
gether different from those of the Veronese tomb ; that, here,
the whole effect is dependent on mere multiplications of similar
lines of tracery, sculpture being hardly introduced except in
the seated statue under the central niche, and, formerly, in
groups filling the shadowy hollows under the small niches in
the archivolt, but broken away in the Revolution. And if
now we turn to Plate XII., just passed, and examine the heads
of the two lateral niches there given from each of these monu-
ments on a larger scale, the contrast will be yet more apparent.
The one from Abbeville (fig. 5), though it contains much
floral work of the crisp Northern kind in its finial and crock-
ets, yet depends for all its effect on the various patterns of
foliation with which its spaces are filled; and it is so cut
through and through that it is hardly stronger than a piece
of lace : whereas the pinnacle from Yerona depends for its
effect on one broad mass of shadow, boldly shaped into the
trefoil in its bearing arch ; and there is no other trefoil on that
side of the niche. All the rest of its decoration is floral, or
by almonds and bosses ; and its surface of stone is unpierced,
and kept in broad light, and the mass of it thick and strong
enough- to stand for as many more centuries as it has already
stood, scatheless, in the open street of Yerona. The figures 3
and 4, above each niche, show how the same principles are
carried out into the smallest details of the two edifices, 3 be-
226 SECOXD PERIOD.
ing the moulding which borders the gable at Abbeville, and 4.
that in the same position at Yerona ; and as thus in all cases
the distinction in their treatment remains the same, the one
attracting the eye to broad sculptured surfaces, the other to
. involutions of intricate lines, I shall hereafter characterize the
two schools, whenever I have occasion to refer to them, the
one as Surface-Gothic, the other as Linear-Gothic.
§ cm. Now observe : it is not, at present, the question,
whether the form of the Yeronese niche, and the design of its
flower-work, be as good as they might have been ; but simply,
which of the two architectural principles is the greater and
better. And this we cannot hesitate for an instant in decid-
ing. The Yeronese Gothic is strong in its masonry, simple
in its masses, but perpetual in its variety. The late French
Gothic is weak in masonry, broken in mass, and repeats the
same idea continually. It is very beautiful, but the Italian
Gothic is the nobler style.
§ civ. Yet, in saying that the French Gothic repeats one
idea, I mean merely that it depends too much upon the folia-
tion of its traceries. The disposition of the traceries them-
selves is endlessly varied and inventive ; and indeed, the mind
of the French workman was, perhaps, even richer in fancy
than that of the Italian, only he had been taught a less noble
style. This is especially to be remembered with respect to the
subordination of figure sculpture above noticed as characteristic
of the later Gothic.
It is not that such sculpture is wanting ; on the contrary,
it is often worked into richer groups, and carried out with a
perfection of execution, "far greater than those which adorn
the earlier buildings: but, in the early work, it is vigorous,
prominent, and essential to the beauty of the whole ; in the
late work it is enfeebled, and shrouded in the veil of tracery,
from which it may often be removed with little harm to the
general effect.*
* In many of the best French Gothic churches, the groups of figures
have been all broken away at the Revolution, without much harm to the
VI. THE NATURE OF GOTHIC.
227
Fig. XX.
§ cv. Now the reader may rest assured that no principle of
art is more absolute than this, — that a composition from which
anything can be removed without doing mischief is always so
far forth inferior. On this ground, therefore, if on no other,
there can be no question, for a moment, which of the two
schools is the greater; although there are many most noble
works in the French traceried Gothic, having a sublimity of
their own dependent on their extreme richness and grace of
line, and for which we may be most grateful to their builders.
And, indeed, the superiority of the Surface-
Gothic cannot be completely felt, until we
compare it with the more degraded Linear
schools, as, for instance, with our own Eng-
lish Perpendicular. The ornaments of the
Veronese niche, which we have used for our
example, are by no means among the best of
their school, yet they will serve our purpose
for such a comparison. That of its pinnacle
is composed of a single upright flowering
plant, of which the stem shoots up through the
centres of the leaves, and bears a pendent blos-
som, somewhat like that of the imperial lily.
The leaves are thrown back from the stem with
singular grace and freedom, and foreshortened,
as if by a skilful painter, in the shallow marble
relief. Their arrangement is roughly shown
in the little woodcut at the side (Fig. XX.) ;
and if the reader will simply try the experi-
ment for himself, — first, of covering a piece
of paper with crossed lines, as if for accounts,
and filling all the interstices with any folia-
tion that comes into his head, as in Figure XIX. above ; and
then, of trying to fill the point of a gable with a piece of
picturesqueness, though with grievous loss to the historical value of the
architecture : whereas, if from the niche at Verona we were to remove its
floral ornaments, and the statue beneath it, nothing would remain but a
rude square trefoiled shell, utterly valueless, or even ugly.
228 SECOND PEEIOD.
leafage like that in Figure XX. above, putting the figure itself
aside, — lie will presently find that more thought and invention
are required to design this single minute pinnacle, than to cover
acres of ground with English perpendicular.
§ cvi. We have now, I believe, obtained a sufficiently ac-
curate knowledge both of the spirit and form of Gothic archi-
tecture ; but it may, perhaps, be useful to the general reader,
if, in conclusion, I set down a few plain and practical rules
for determining, in every instance, whether a given building
be good Gothic or not, and, if not Gothic, whether its archi-
tecture is of a kind which will probably reward the pains of
careful examination.
§ cvn. First. Look if the roof rises in a steep gable, high
above the walls. If it does not do this, there is something wrong ;
the building is not quite pure Gothic, or has been altered.
§ cvin. Secondly. Look if the principal windows and doors
have pointed arches with gables over them. If not pointed
arches, the building is not Gothic ; if they have not any gables
over them, it is either not pure, or not first-rate.
If, however, it has the steep roof, the pointed arch, and
gable all united, it is nearly certain to be a Gothic building of
a very fine time.
§ cix. Thirdly. ' Look if the arches are cusped, or aper«
tures foliated. If the building has met the first two conditions,
it is sure to be foliated somewhere ; but, if not everywhere,
the parts which are unfoliated are imperfect, unless they are
large bearing arches, or small and sharp arches in groups, form-
ing a kind of foliation by their own multiplicity, and relieved
by sculpture and rich mouldings. The upper windows, for in-
stance, in the east end of Westminster Abbey are imperfect for
want of foliation. If -there be no foliation anywhere, the
building is assuredly imperfect Gothic.
§ ex. Fourthly. If the building meets all the first three
conditions, look if its arches in general, whether of windows
and doors, or of minor ornamentation, are carried on true
shafts with bases and capitals. If they are, then the building
is assuredly of the finest Gothic style. It may still, perhaps,
VI. THE KATURE OF GOTHIC. 229
be an imitation, a feeble copy, or a bad example of a noble
style ; but the manner of it, having met all these four condi-
tions, is assuredly first-rate.
If its apertures have not shafts and capitals, look if they
are plain openings in the walls, studiously simple, and un-
moulded at the sides ; as, for instance, the arch in Plate XIX.
Yol. I. If so, the building may still be of the finest Gothic,
adapted to some domestic or military service. But if the sides
of the window be moulded, and yet there are no capitals at the
spring of the arch, it is assuredly of an inferior school.
This is all that is necessary to determine whether the build-
ing be of a fine Gothic style. The next tests to be applied are
in order to discover whether it be good architecture or not :
for it may be very impure Gothic, and yet very noble architec-
ture ; or it may be very pure Gothic, and yet, if a copy, or
originally raised by an ungifted builder, very bad architecture,
If it belong to any of the great schools of color, its criticism
becomes as complicated, and needs as much care, as that of a piece
of music, and no general rules for it can be given ; but if not —
§ cxi. First. See if it looks as if it had been built by
strong men ; if it has the sort of roughness, and largeness, and
nonchalance, mixed in 'places with the exquisite tenderness
which seems always to be the sign-manual of the broad vision,
and massy power of men who can see past the work they are
doing, and betray here and there something like disdain for it.
If the building has this character, it is much already in its
favor ; it will go hard but it proves a noble one. If it has not
this, but is altogether accurate, minute, and scrupulous in its
workmanship, it must belong to either the very best or the very
worst of schools : the very best, in which exquisite design is
wrought out with untiring and conscientious care, as in the
Giottesque Gothic; or the very worst, in which mechanism
has taken the place of design. It is more likely, in general,
that it should belong to the worst than the best : so that, on
the whole, very accurate workmanship is to be esteemed a bad
sign ; and if there is nothing remarkable about the building but
its precision, it may be passed at once with contempt.
230 SECOND PERIOD.
§ cxn. Secondly. Observe if it be irregular, its different
parts fitting themselves to different purposes, no one caring
what becomes of them, so that they do their work. If one
part always answers accurately to another part, it is sure to
be a bad building ; and the greater and more conspicuous the
irregularities, the greater the chances are that it is a good one.
For instance, in the Ducal Palace, of which a rough woodcut
is given in Chap. VIII., the general idea is sternly symmetri-
cal ; but two windows are lower than the rest of the six ; and
if the" reader will count the arches of the small arcade as far as
to the great balcony, he will find it is not in the centre, but set
to the right-hand side by the whole width of one of those arches.
We may be pretty sure that the building is a good one ; none
but a master of his craft would have ventured to do this.
§ cxm. Thirdly. Observe if all the traceries, capitals, and
other ornaments are of perpetually varied design. If not, the
work is assuredly bad.
§ cxiv. Lastly. Read the sculpture. Preparatory to read-
ing it, you will have to discover whether it is legible (and, if
legible, it is nearly certain to be worth reading). On a good
building, the sculpture is always so set, and on such a scale,
that at the ordinary distance from which the edifice is seen,
the sculpture shall be thoroughly intelligible and interesting,
in order to accomplish this, the uppermost statues will be ten
or twelve feet high, and the upper ornamentation will be co-
lossal, increasing in fineness as it descends, till on the founda-
tion it will often be wrought as if for a precious cabinet in a
king's chamber; but the spectator will not notice that the
upper sculptures are colossal. He will merely feel that he can
see them plainly, and make them all out at his ease.
And, having ascertained this, let him set himself to read
them. Thenceforward the criticism of the building is to be
conducted precisely on the same principles as that of a book ;
and it must depend on the knowledge, feeling, and not a little
on the industry and perseverance of the reader, whether, even
in the case of the best works, he either perceive them to be
great, or feel them to be entertaining.
CHAPTER VII.
GOTHIC PALACES.
§ i. THE buildings out of the remnants of which we have
endeavored to recover some conception of the appearance of
Venice during the Byzantine period, contribute hardly any-
thing at this day to the effect of the streets of the city. They
are too few and too much defaced to attract the eye or influ-
ence the feelings. The charm which Venice still possesses,
and which for the last fifty years has rendered it the favorite
haunt of all the painters of picturesque subject, is owing to
the effect of the palaces belonging to the period we have now
to examine, mingled with those of the Renaissance.
This effect is produced in two different ways. The Renais
eance palaces are not more picturesque in themselves than the
club-houses of Pall Mall ; but they become delightful by the
contrast of their severity and refinement with the rich and
rude confusion of the sea life beneath them, and of their
white and solid masonry with the green waves. Remove
from beneath them the orange sails of the fishing boats, the
black gliding of the gondolas, the cumbered decks and rough
crews of the barges of traffic, and the fretfulness of the green
water along their foundations, and the Renaissance palaces
possess no more interest than those of London or Paris. But
the Gothic palaces are picturesque in themselves, and wield
over us an independent power. Sea and sky, and every other
accessory might be taken away from them, and still they
would be beautiful and strange. They are not less striking in
the loneliest streets of Padua and Vicenza (where many were
buiit during the period of the Venetian authority in those
cities) than in the most crowded thoroughfares of Venice
232 SECOND PEEIOD.
itself; and if they could be transported into the midst of
London, they would still not altogether lose their power over
the feelings.
§ n. The best proof of this is in the perpetual attractive-
ness of all pictures, however poor in skill, which have taken
for their subject the principal of these Gothic buildings, the
Ducal Palace. In spite of all architectural theories and teach-
ings, the paintings of this building are always felt to be de-
lightful ; we cannot be wearied by them, though often sorely
tried ; but we are not put to the same trial in the case of the
palaces of the Renaissance. They are never drawn singly, or
as the principal subject, nor can they be. The building which
faces the Ducal Palace on the opposite side of the Piazzetta is
celebrated among architects, but it is not familiar to our eyes ;
it is painted only incidentally, for the completion, not the sub-
ject, of a Yenetian scene ; and even the Renaissance arcades
of St. Mark's Place, though frequently painted, are always
treated as a mere avenue to its Byzantine church and colossal
tower. And the Ducal Palace itself owes the peculiar charm
which we have hitherto felt, not so much to its greater size as
compared with other Gothic buildings, or nobler design (for
it never yet has been rightly drawn), as to its comparative iso-
lation. The other Gothic structures are as much injured by
the continual juxtaposition of the Renaissance palaces, as the
latter are aided by it ; they exhaust their own life by breath-
ing it into the Renaissance coldness : but the Ducal Palace
stands comparatively alone, and fully expresses the Gothic
power.
§ in. And it is just that it should be so seen, for it is the
original of nearly all the rest. It is not the elaborate and more
studied developement of a national style, but the great and
sudden invention of one man, instantly forming a national
style, and becoming the model for the imitation of every archi-
tect in Venice for upwards of a century. It was the determina-
tion of this one fact which occupied me the greater part of the
time I spent in Venice. It had always appeared to me most
strange that there should be in no part of the city any incipient
VII. GOTHIC PALACES.
233
or imperfect types of the form of the Ducal Palace ; it was
difficult to believe that so mighty a building had been the con-
ception of one man, not only in disposition and detail, but in
style ; and yet impossible, had it been otherwise, but that some
early examples of approximate Gothic form must exist. There
is not one. The palaces built between the final cessation of
the Byzantine style, about 1300, and the date of the Ducal
Palace (1320-1350), are all completely distinct in character, so
distinct that I at first intended the account of them to form a
separate section of this volume ; and there is literally no transi-
tional form between them and the perfection of the Ducal
Palace. Every Gothic building in Venice which resembles the
latter is a copy of it. I do not mean that there was no Gothic
in Venice before the Ducal Palace, but that the mode of
its application to domestic architecture had not been deter-
mined. The real root of the Ducal Palace is the apse of the
church of the Frari. The traceries of that apse, though earlier
and ruder in workmanship, are nearly the same in mouldings,
and precisely the same in treatment (especially in the placing
of the lions' heads), as those of the great Ducal Arcade ; and
the originality of thought in the architect of the Ducal Palace
consists in his having adapted those traceries, in a more highly
developed and finished form, to civil uses. In the apse of the
church they form narrow and tall window lights, somewhat
more massive than those of Northern Gothic, but similar in
application: the thing to be done was to adapt these traceries
to the forms of domestic
building necessitated by na-
tional usage. . The early pal-
aces consisted, as we have
seen, of arcades sustaining
walls faced with marble, rath-
er broad and long than ele-
vated. This form was kept
for the Ducal Palace ; but in- d
stead of round arches from shaft to shaft, the Frari traceries
were substituted, with two essential modifications. Besides
234 SECOKD PEEIOD.
being enormously increased in scale and thickness, that they
might better bear the superincumbent weight, the quatrefoil,
which in the Frari windows is above the arch, as at a, Fig.
XXI., on previous page, was, in the Ducal Palace, put between
the arches, as at b / the main reason for this alteration being
that the bearing power of the arches, which was now to be
trusted with the weight of a wall forty feet high,* was thus
thrown between the quatrefoils, instead of
Kg. XXIL ^^ under them, and thereby applied at far better
advantage. And, in the second place, the
joints of the masonry were changed. In the
Frari (as often also in St. John and St. Paul's)
the tracery is formed of two simple cross bars
or slabs of stone, pierced into the requisite
forms, and separated by a horizontal joint,
just on a level with the lowest cusp of the
quatrefoils, as seen in Fig. XXI., a. But at
the Ducal Palace the horizontal joint is in the centre of the
quatrefoils, and two others are introduced beneath it at right
angles to the run of the mouldings, as seen in Fig. XXI., £».f
The Ducal Palace builder was sternly resolute in carrying out
this rule of masonry. In the traceries of the large upper win-
dows, where the cusps are cut through as in the quatrefoil Fig.
XXIL, the lower cusp is left partly solid, as at a, merely that
the joint a b may have its right place and direction.
§ rv. The ascertaining the formation of the Ducal Palace
traceries from those of the Frari, and its priority to all other
buildings which resemble it in Venice, rewarded me for a
great deal of uninteresting labor in the examination of mould-
ings and other minor features of the Gothic palaces, in which
alone the internal evidence of their date was to be discovered,
* 38 ft. 2 in., without its cornice, which is 10 inches deep, and sustains
pinnacles of stone 7 feet high. I was enabled to get the measures by a
scaffolding erected in 1851 to repair the front.
f I believe the necessary upper joint is vertical, through the uppermost
•oue of the quatrefoil, as in the figure; but I have lost my memorandum of
this joint.
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 235
there being no historical records whatever respecting them.
But the accumulation of details on which the complete proof
of the fact depends, could not either be brought within the
compass of this volume, or be made in anywise interesting to
the general reader. I shall therefore, without involving my-
self in any discussion, give a brief account of the develope-
ment of Gotliic design in Venice, as I believe it to have taken
place. I shall possibly be able at some future period so to
compress the evidence on which my conviction rests, as to
render it intelligible to the public, while, in the meantime,
some of the more essential points of it are thrown together in
the Appendix, and in the history of the Ducal Palace given
in the next chapter.
§ v. According, then, to the statement just made, the
Gothic architecture of Venice is divided into two great periods :
one, in which, while various irregular Gothic tendencies are
exhibited, no consistent type of domestic building was devel-
oped ; the other, in which a formed and consistent school of
domestic architecture resulted from the direct imitation of the
great design of the Ducal Palace. We must deal with these
two periods separately ; the first of them being that which has
been often above alluded to, under the name of the transitional
period.
"We shall consider in succession the general form, the win-
dows, doors, balconies, and parapets, of the Gothic palaces be-
longing to each of these periods.
§ vi. First. General Form.
We have seen that the wrecks of the Byzantine palaces
consisted merely of upper and lower arcades surrounding cor-
tiles; the disposition of the interiors being now entirely
changed, and their original condition untraceable. The
entrances to these early buildings are, for the most part, mere-
ly large circular arches, the central features of their continuous
arcades : they do not present us with definitely separated win-
dows and doors.
But a great change takes place in the Gothic period.
These long arcades break, as it were, into pieces, and coagulate
236 SECOKD PERIOD.
into central and lateral windows, and small arched doors,
pierced in great surfaces of brick wail. The sea story of a
Byzantine palace consists of seven, nine, or more arches in a
continuous line ; but the sea story of a Gothic palace consists
of a door and one or two windows on each side, as in a modern
house. The first story of a Byzantine palace consists of, per-
haps, eighteen or twenty arches, reaching from one side of the
house to the other ; the first story of a Gothic palace consists
of a window of four or five lights in the centre, and one or
two single windows on each side. The germ, however, of the
Gothic arrangement is already found in the Byzantine, where,
as we have seen, the arcades, though continuous, are always
composed of a central mass and two wings of smaller arches.
The central group becomes the door or the middle light of the
Gothic palace, and the wings break into its lateral windows.
§ vn. But the most essential difference in the entire ar-
rangement, is the loss of the unity of conception which regu-
lated Byzantine composition. How subtle the sense of grada-
tion which disposed the magnitudes of the early palaces we
have seen already, but I have not hitherto noticed that the
Byzantine work was centralized in its ornamentation as much
as in its proportions. Not only were the lateral capitals and
archivolts kept comparatively plain, while the central ones
were sculptured, but the midmost piece of sculpture, whatever
it might be, — capital, inlaid circle, or architrave, — was always
made superior to the rest. In the Fondaco de' Turchi, for
instance, the midmost capital of the upper arcade is the key
to the whole group, larger and more studied than all the rest ;
and the lateral ones are so disposed as to answer each other
on the opposite sides, thus, A being put for the central one,
FEBCACBEF,
a sudden break of the system being admitted in one unique
capital at the extremity of the series.
§ vm. Now, long after the Byzantine arcades had been con-
tracted into windows, this system of centralization was more
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 237
or less maintained ; and in all the early groups of windows of
five lights the midmost capital is different from the two on
each side of it, which always correspond. So strictly is this
the case, that whenever the capitals of any group of windows
are not centralized in this manner, but are either entirely like
each other, or all different, so as to show no correspondence,
it is a certain proof, even if no other should exist, of the com-
parative lateness of the building.
In every group of windows in Yenice which I was able to
examine, and which wrere centralized in this manner, I found
evidence in their mouldings of their being anteriw* to the
Ducal Palace. That palace did away with the subtle propor-
tion and centralization of the Byzantine. Its arches are of
equal width, and its capitals are all different and ungrouped ;
some, indeed, are larger than the rest, but this is not for the,,
sake of proportion, only for particular service when more
weight is to be borne. But, among other evidences of the
early date of the sea facade of that building, is one subtle and
delicate concession to the system of centralization which is
finally closed. The capitals of the upper arcade are, as I said,
all different, and show no arranged correspondence with each
other ; but the central one is of pure Parian marble, while
all the others are of Istrian stone.
The bold decoration of the central window and balcony
above, in the Ducal Palace, is only a peculiar expression of the
principality of the central window, which was characteristic of
the Gothic period not less than of the Byzantine. In the
private palaces the central windows become of importance by
their number of lights ; in the Ducal Palace such an arrange-
ment was, for various reasons, inconvenient, and the central
window, which, so far from being more important than the
others, is every way inferior in design to the two at the eastern
extremity of the facade, was nevertheless made the leading
feature by its noble canopy and balcony.
§ ix. Such being the principal differences in the general
conception of the Byzantine and Gothic palaces, the particu-
lars in the treatment of the latter are easily stated. The
238 SECOND PEEIOD.
ble facings are gradually removed from the walls ; and the
bare brick either stands forth confessed boldly, contrasted with
the marble shafts and archivolts of the windows, or it is cov-
ered with stucco painted in fresco, of which more hereafter.
The Ducal Palace, as in all other respects, is an exact expres-
sion of the middle point in the change. It still retains marble
facing ; but instead of being disposed in slabs as in the Byzan-
tine times, it is applied in solid bricks or blocks of marble, Ill-
inches long, by 6 inches high.
The stories of the Gothic palaces are divided by string
courses, considerably bolder in projection than those of the
Byzantines, and more highly decorated ; and while the angles
of the Byzantine palaces are quite sharp and pure, those of
the Gothic palaces are wrought into a chamfer, filled by small
twisted shafts which have capitals under the cornice of each
story.
§ x. These capitals are little observed in the general effect,
but the shafts are of essential importance in giving an aspect
of firmness to the angle ; a point of peculiar necessity in Yen-
ice, where, owing Jo the various convolutions of the canals, the
angles of the palaces are not only frequent, but often neces-
sarily acute, every inch of ground being valuable. In other
cities, the appearance as well as the assurance of stability can
always be secured by the use of massy stones, as in the fortress
palaces of Florence ; but it must have been always desirable at
n^enice to build as lightly as possible, in consequence of the
Comparative insecurity of the foundations. The early palaces
+vere, as we have seen, perfect models of grace and lightness,
and the Gothic, which followed, though much more massive
'•ft the style of its details, never admitted more weight into
^*s structure than was absolutely necessary for its strength,
ilence, every Gothic palace has the appearance of enclosing
as many rooms, and attaining as much strength, as is possible,
with a minimum quantity of brick and stone. The traceries
of the windows, which in Northern Gothic only support the
glass, at Yenice support the building • and thus the greater
ponderousness of the traceries is only an indication of the
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 239
greater lightness of the structure. Hence, when the Renais-
sance architects give their opinions as to the stability of the
Ducal Palace when injured by fire, one of them, Christofore
Sorte, says, that he thinks it by no means laudable that the
" Serenissimo Dominio" of the Venetian senate " should live
in a palace built in the air." * And again, Andrea della Valle
says, that f " the wall of the saloon is thicker by fifteen inches
than the shafts below it, projecting nine inches within, and six
without, ftandfaff as if in the air, above the piazza ; J and yet
this wall is so nobly and strongly knit together, that Rusconi,
though himself altogether devoted to the Renaissance school,
declares that the fire which had destroyed the whole interior
of the palace had done this wall no more harm than the bite of
a fly to an elephant. " Troveremo die el danno che ha patito
queste muraglie sara conforme alia beccatura d' una mosca fatta
ad un elefante." §
§ xi. And so in all the other palaces built at the time, con-
summate strength was joined with a lightness of form and
sparingness of material which rendered it eminently desirable
that the eye should be convinced, by every possible expedient,
of the stability of the building ; and these twisted pillars at
the angles are not among the least important means adopted
for this purpose, for they seem to bind the walls together as a
cable binds a chest. In the Ducal Palace, where they are
carried up the angle of an unbroken wall forty feet high,
are divided into portions, gradually diminishing in
towards the top, by circular bands or rings, set with the na\^
head or dog-tooth ornament, vigorously projecting, and giving
the column nearly the aspect of the stalk of a reed ; its dimin-
* "Dice, che non lauda per alcun modo di metter questo Serenissimo
Dominio in tanto pericolo d' habitar un palazzo fabricate in aria." — Pareri
di XV. Architetti, con ittmtrazioni delV Abbate Giuseppe Cadorin (Venice,
1838), p. 104.
f "II muro della sala e piu grosso delle colonne sott* esso piedi nno e
onze tre, et posto in modo die onze sei sta come in acre sopra la piazza, et
onze nove deiitro." — Pareri di XV. Architelti, p. 47.
\ Compare " Seven Lamps," chap. iii. § 7.
§ Pureri, above quoted, p. 21.
240
SECOND PERIOD.
ishing proportions being exactly arranged as they are by
Nature in all jointed plants. At the top of the palace, like
the wheat-stalk branching into the ear of corn, it expands
into a small niche with a pointed canopy, which joins with the
fantastic parapet in at once relieving, and yet making more
notable by its contrast, the weight of massy wall below. The
arrangement is seen in the woodcut, Chap. VIII. ; the angle
shafts being slightly exaggerated in thickness, together with
their joints, as otherwise they would hardly have been intel-
ligible on so small a scale.
The Ducal Palace is peculiar in these niches at the angles,
which throughout the rest of the city appear on churches
only ; but some may perhaps have been removed by restora-
tions, together with the parapets with which they were associ-
ated.
§ xu. Of these roof parapets of Venice, it has been already
noticed that the examples which remain diifer from those of
all other cities of Italy in their purely ornamental character.
(Chap. I. § xn.) They are not battlements, properly so-called ;
still less machicolated cornices, such as crown the fortress
Fig. YYTTT.
palaces of the great mainland nobles ; but merely adaptations
of the light and crown-like ornaments which crest the walls of
the Arabian mosque. Nor are even these generally used on
the main walls of the palaces themselves. They occur on. the
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 241
Ducal Palace, on the Casa d' Oro, and, some years back, were
still standing on the Fondaco de' Turchi ; but the majority Of
the Gothic Palaces have the plain 'dog-tooth cornice under the
tiled projecting roof (Yol. I. Chap. XI Y. § iv.) ; and the
highly decorated parapet is employed only on the tops of wallg
which surround courts or gardens, and which, without such
decoration, would have been utterly devoid of interest. Fig.
XXIII. represents, at* 5, part of a parapet of this kind which
surrounds the court-yard of a palace in the Calle del Bagatin,
between San G. Grisostomo, and San Canzian : the whole is
of brick, and the mouldings peculiarly sharp and varied ; the
height of each separate pinnacle being about four feet, crown-
ing a wall twelve or fifteen feet high : a piece of the moulding
which surrounds the quatrefoil is given larger in the figure at
a, together with the top of the small arch below, having the
common Yenetian dentil round it, and a delicate little mould-
ing with dog-tooth ornament to carry the flanks of the arch.
The moulding of the brick is throughout sharp and beautiful
in the highest degree. One of the most curious points about
it is the careless way in which the curved outlines of the pin-
nacles are cut into the plain brickwork, with no regard what-
ever to the places of its joints. The weather of course wears
the bricks at the exposed joints, and jags the outline a little ;
but the work has stood, evidently from the fourteenth century,
without sustaining much harm.
§ xni. This parapet may be taken as a general type of the
w#S-parapet of Yenice in the Gothic period ; some being much
less decorated, and others much more richly : the most beauti-
ful in Yenice is in the little Calle, opening on the Campo and
Traghetto San Samuele; it has delicately carved devices in
stone let into each pinnacle.
The parapets of_the palaces themselves were lighter and
more fantastic, consisting of narrow lance-like spires of marble,
set between the broader pinnacles, which were in such cases gen-
erally carved into the form of a fleur-de-lis : the French word
gives the reader the best idea of the form, though he must
remember that this use of the lily for the parapets has nothing
242 SECOND PERIOD.
to do with France, but is the carrying out of the Byzantine
system of floral ornamentation, which introduced the outline
of the lily everywhere ; so that I have found it convenient to
call its most beautiful capitals, the lily capitals of St. Mark's.
But the occurrence of this flower, more distinctly than usual,
on the battlements of the Ducal Palace, was the cause of some
curious political speculation in the year 1511, when a piece of
one of these battlements was shaken down by the great earth-
quake of that year. Sanuto notes in his diary that " the piece
that fell was just that which bore the lily," and records sundry
sinister anticipations, founded on this important omen, of im-
pending danger to the adverse French power. As there hap-
pens, in the Ducal Palace, to be a joint in the pinnacles which
exactly separates the " part which bears the lily " from that
which is fastened to the cornice, it is no wonder that the omen
proved fallacious.
§ xrv. The decorations of the parapet were completed by
attaching gilded balls of metal to the extremities of the leaves
of the lilies, and of the intermediate spires, so as literally to
form for the wall a diadem of silver touched upon the points
with gold ; the image being rendered still more distinct in the
Casa d' Oro, by variation in the height of the pinnacles, the
highest being in the centre of the front.
Very few of these light roof parapets now remain ; they
are, of course, the part of the building which dilapidation first
renders it necessary to remove. That of the Ducal Palace,
however, thotagh often, I doubt not, restored, retains much of
the ancient form, and is exceedingly beautiful, though it has
no appearance from below of being intended for protection,
but serves only, by its extreme lightness, to relieve the eye
when wearied by the breadth of wall beneath ; it is neverthe-
less a most serviceable defence for any person walking along
the edge of the roof. It has some appearance of insecurity,
owing to the entire independence of the pieces of stone com-
posing it, which, though of course fastened by iron, look as if
they stood balanced on the cornice like the pillars of Stone-
henge ; but I have never heard of its having been disturbed
VII. GOTHIC PALACES.
243
Fig. XXIV.
by anything sliort of an earthquake ; and, as we nave seen,
even the great earthquake of 1511, though it mucli injured
the Gorne, or battlements at the Casa d' Oro, and threw down
several statues at St. Mark's,* only shook one lily from the
brow of the Ducal Palace.
§ xv. Although, however, these light and fantastic forms
appear to have been universal in the battlements meant pri-
marily for decoration, there was
another condition of parapet alto-
gether constructed for the protec-
tion of persons walking on the
roofs or in the galleries of the
churches, and from these more
substantial and simple defences,
the BALCONIES, to which the Goth-
ic palaces owe half of their pictur-
esque effect, were immediately de-
rived ; the balcony being, in fact,
nothing more than a portion of
such roof parapets arranged round
a projecting window-sill sustained
on brackets, as in the central ex-
ample of the annexed figure. We
must, therefore, examine these
defensive balustrades and the de-
rivative balconies consecutively.
* It is a curious proof how completely, even so early as the beginning of
the sixteenth century, the Venetians had lost the habit of reading the re-
ligious art of their ancient churches, that Sanuto, describing this injury,
says, that "four of the Kings in marble fell from their pinnacles above- IU«
front, at St. Mark's church ;" and presently afterwards corrects his mistake,
and apologises for it thus: "These were four saints, St. Constantino, St.
Demetrius, St. George, and St. Theodore, all Greek saints. They look like
Kings." Observe the perfect, because unintentional, praise given to the
old sculptor.
I quote the passage from the translation of these precious diaries of
Sanuto, by my friend Mr. Rawdoii Brown, a translation which I hope wilj
some day become a standard book in English libraries.
244 SECOXD TEEIOD.
§ xvi. Obviously, a parapet with an unbroken edge, upon
which the arm may rest (a condition above noticed, Vol. I. p.
157., as essential to the proper performance of its duty), can be
constructed only in one of three ways. It must either be (1)
of solid stone, decorated, if at all, by mere surface sculpture,
as in the uppermost example in Fig. XXIV., above ; or (2)
pierced into some kind of tracery, as in the second ; or (3)
composed of small pillars carrying a level bar of stone, as in
the third ; this last condition being, in a diseased and swollen
form, familiar to us in the balustrades of our bridges.*
§ xvn. (1.) Of these three kinds, the first, which is em-
ployed for the pulpit at Torcello and in the nave of St. Mark's,
whence the uppermost example is taken, is beautiful when
sculpture so rich can be employed upon it ; but it is liable to
objection, first, because it is heavy and unlike a parapet when
seen from below ; and, secondly, because it is inconvenient in
use. The position of leaning over a balcony becomes cramped
,ind painful if long continued, unless the foot can be some-
times advanced beneath the ledge on which the arm leans, i. e.
between the balusters or traceries, which of course cannot be
done in the solid parapet : it is also more agreeable to be able
to see partially down through the penetrations, than to be
obliged to lean far over the edge. The solid parapet was
rarely used in Venice after the earlier ages.
§ xvm. (2.) The Traceried Parapet is chiefly used in the
Gothic of the Xorth, from which the above example, in the
Casa Contarini Fasan, is directly derived. It is, when well
designed, the richest and most beautiful of all forms, and
many of the best buildirfgs of France and Germany are de-
pendent for half their effect upon it ; its only fault being a
slight tendency to fantasticism. It was never frankly received
in Venice, where the architects had unfortunately returned to
the Renaissance forms before the flamboyant parapets were
fully developed in the North ; but, in the early stage of the
Renaissance, a kind of pierced parapet was employed, founded
* I am not speaking here of iron balconies. See below, § xxn.
VII. GOTHIC PALACES.
245
Fig. XXV.
on the old Byzantine interwoven traceries ; that is to say, the
slab of stone was pierced here and there with holes, and then
an interwoven pattern traced on the surface round them. The
difference in system will be understood in a moment by com-
paring the uppermost example in
the figure at the side, which is a
Northern parapet from the Cathe-
dral of Abbeville, with the lowest,
from a secret chamber in the Casa
Foscari. It will be seen that the
Venetian one is far more simple
and severe, yet singularly piquant,
the black penetrations telling sharply
on the plain broad surface. Far in-
ferior in beauty, it has yet one point
of superiority to that of Abbeville,
that it proclaims itself more defi-
nitely to be stone. The other has
rather the look of lace.
The intermediate figure is a panel of the main balcony of
the Ducal Palace, and is introduced here as being an exactly
transitional condition between the Northern and Venetian
types. It was built when the German Gothic workmen were
exercising considerable influence over those in Venice, and
there was some chance of the Northern parapet introducing
itself. It actually did so, as above shown, in the Casa Conta-
rini Fasan, but was for the most part stoutly resisted and kept
at bay by the Byzantine form, the lowest in the last figure,
until that form itself was displaced by the common, vulgar,
Renaissance baluster; a grievous loss, for the severe pierced
type was capable of a variety as endless as the fantasticism of
our own Anglo-Saxon manuscript ornamentation.
§ xix. (3.) The Baluster Parapet. Long before the idea of
tracery had suggested itself to the minds either of Venetian
or any other architects, it had, of course, been necessary to
provide protection for galleries, edges of roofs, <fec. ; and the
most natural form in which such protection could be obtained
246 SECOXD PERIOD.
was that of a horizontal bar or hand-rail, sustained upon short
shafts or balusters, as in Fig. XXIV. p. 243. This form was,
above all others, likely to be adopted where variations of Greek
or Roman pillared architecture were universal in the larger
masses of the building ; the parapet became itself a small series
of columns, with capitals and architraves; and whether the
cross-bar laid upon them should be simply horizontal, and in
contact with their capitals, or sustained by mimic arches,
round or pointed, depended entirely on the system adopted
in the rest of the work. Where the large arches were round,
the small balustrade arches would be so likewise ; where
those were pointed, these would become so in sympathy with
them.
§ xx. Unfortunately, wherever a balcony or parapet is used
in an inhabited house, it is, of course, the part of the structure
which first suffers from dilapidation, as well as that of which
the security is most anxiously cared for. The main pillars of
a casement may stand for centuries unshaken under the steady
weight of the superincumbent wall, but the cement and vari-
ous insetting of the balconies are sure to be disturbed by the
irregular pressures and impulses of the persons leaning on
them ; while, whatever extremity of decay may be allowed in
other parts of the building, the balcony, as soon as it seems
dangerous, will assuredly be removed or restored. The reader
will not, if he considers this, be surprised to hear that, among
all the remnants of the .Venetian domestic architecture of the
»
eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, there is net a single
instance of the original balconies being preserved. The palace
mentioned below (§ xxxri.), in the piazza of the Rial to, has,
indeed, solid slabs of stone between its shafts, but I cannot be
certain that they are of the same period ; if they are, this is
the only existing example of the form of protection employed
for casements during this transitional period, and it cannot be
reasoned from as being the general one.
§ xxi. It is only, therefore, in the churches of Torcello,
Murano, and St. Mark's, that the ancient forms of gallery
defence may still be seen. At Murano, between the pillars of
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 247
tlic apse, a beautiful balustrade is employed, of which a single
arch is given in the Plate opposite, fig. 4, with its section,
fig. 5. ; and at St. Mark's, a noble round-arched parapet, with
small pillars of precisely the same form as those of Murano,
but shorter, and bound at the angles into groups of four by
the serpentine knot so often occurring in Lombardic work, runs
round the whole exterior of the lower story of the church, and
round great part of its interior galleries, alternating with the
more fantastic form, fig. 6. In domestic architecture, the
remains of the original balconies begin to occur first in the
beginning of the fourteenth century, when the round arch had
entirely disappeared ; and the parapet consists, almost without
exception, of a series of small trefoiled arches, cut boldly
through a bar of stone which rests upon the shafts, at first
very simple, and generally adorned with a cross at the point
of each arch, as in fig. 7 in the last Plate, which gives the
angle of such a balcony on a large scale ; but soon enriched
into the beautiful conditions, figs. 2 and 3, and sustained on
brackets formed of lions' heads, as seen in the central example
of their entire effect, fig. 1.
§ xxn. In later periods, the round arches return ; then the
interwoven Byzantine form ; and finally, as above noticed, the
common English or classical balustrade ; of which, however,
exquisite examples, for grace and variety of outline, are found
designed in the backgrounds of Paul Yeronese. I could
willingly follow out this subject fully, but it is impossible to
'do so without leaving Yenice; for the chief city of Italy, as
far as regards the strict effect of the balcony, is Yerona ; and
if we were once to lose ourselves among the sweet shadows
of its lonely streets, where the falling branches of the flowers
stream li,ke fountains through the pierced traceries of the mar-
ble, there is no saying whether we might soon be able to re-
turn to our immediate work. Yet before leaving the -subject
of the balcony* altogether, I must allude, for a moment, to
* Some details respecting the mechanical structure of the Venetian bal-
cony are given in the final Appendix.
248 SECOND PERIOD.
the peculiar treatment of tlie iron-work out of which it is
frequently wrought on the mainland of Italy — never in Yen-
ice. The iron is always wrought, not cast, beaten first into
thin leaves, and then cut either into strips or bands, two or
three inches broad, which are bent into various curves to form
the sides of the balcony, or else into actual leafage, sweeping
and free, like the leaves of nature, with which it is richly dec-
orated. There is no end to the variety of design, no limit to
the lightness and flow of the forms, which the workman can
produce out of iron treated in this manner ; and it is very
nearly as impossible for any metal-work, so handled, to be
poor, or ignoble in effect, as it is for cast metal-work to be
otherwise.
§ xxm. We have next to examine those features of the
Gothic palaces in which the transitions of their architecture
are most distinctly traceable ; namely, the arches of the win-
dows and doors.
It has already been repeatedly stated, that the Gothic style
had formed itself completely on the mainland, while the
Byzantines still retained their influence at Yenice ; and that
the history of early Yenetian Gothic is therefore riot that of
a school taking new forms independently 'of external influence,
but the history of the struggle of the Byzantine manner with
a contemporary style quite as perfectly organized as itself, and
far more energetic. And this struggle is exhibited partly in
the gradual change of the Byzantine architecture into other
forms, and partly by isolated examples of genuine Gothic
taken prisoner, as it were, in the contest ; or rather entangled
among the enemy's forces', and maintaining their ground till
their friends came up to sustain them. Let us first follow the
steps of the gradual change, and then give some brief account
of the various advanced guards and forlorn hopes of the
Gothic attacking force.
§ xxiv. The uppermost shaded series of six forms of win-
dows in Plate XIY., opposite, represents, at a glance, the modi-
fications of this feature in Yenetian palaces, from the eleventh
to the fifteenth century. Fig. 1 is Byzantine, of the eleventh
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 249
and twelf tli centuries ; figs. 2 and 3 transitional, of the thir-
teenth and early fourteenth centuries; figs. 4 and 5 pure
Gothic, of the thirteenth, fourteenth and early fifteenth ; and
fig. 6. late Gothic, of the fifteenth century, distinguished by
its added finial. Fig. 4 is the longest-lived of all these forms :
it occurs first in the thirteenth century ; and, sustaining modi-
fications only in its mouldings, is found also in the middle of
the fifteenth.
I shall call these the six orders* of Venetian windows, and
when I speak of a window of the fourth, second, or sixth order,
the reader will only have to refer to the numerals at the top of
Plate XIY.
Then the series below shows the principal forms found in
each period, belonging to each several order ; except 1 5 to 1 c,
and the two lower series, numbered 7 to 16, which are types
of Venetian doors.
§ xxv. "We shall now be able, without any difficulty, to
follow the course of transition, beginning with the first order,
1 and 1 a, in the second row. The horse-shoe arch, 1 5, is the
door-head commonly associated with it, and the other three in
the same • row occur in St. Mark's exclusively ; 1 c being used
in the nave, in order to give a greater appearance of lightness
to its great lateral arcades, which at first the spectator supposes
to be round-arched, but he is struck by a peculiar grace and
elasticity in the curves for which he is unable to account, until
he ascends into the galleries whence the true form of the arch
is discernible. The other two — 1 d, from the door of the
* I found it convenient in my own memoranda to express them simply
as fourths, seconds, &c. But ' ' order" is an excellent word for any known
group of forms, whether of windows, capitals, bases, mouldings, or "any
other architectural feature, provided always that it be not understood in any
wise to imply preeminence or isolation in these groups. Thus I may ration-
ally speak of the six orders of Venetian windows, provided I am ready to allow
a French architect to speak of the six or seven, or eight, or seventy or eighty,
orders of Norman windows, if so many are distinguishable; and so also we
may rationally speak, for the sake of intelligibility, of the five orders of
Greek pillars, provided only we understand that there may be five millions
of orders as good or better, of pillars not Greek.
250
SECOND PERIOD.
southern transept, and 1 c, from that of the • treasury, — suffi-
ciently represent a group of fantastic forms derived from the
Arabs, and of which the exquisite decoration is one of the
most important features in St. Mark's. Their form is indeed
permitted merely to obtain more fantasy in the curves of this
decoration.* The reader can see in a moment, that, as pieces
of masonry, or bearing arches, they are infirm or useless, and
therefore never could be employed in any building in which
dignity of structure was the primal object. It is just because
structure is not the primal object in St. Mark's, because it has
no severe weights to bear, and much loveliness of marble and
sculpture to exhibit, that they are therein allowable. They are
Fig. XXVL
of course, like the rest of the building, built of brick and faced
with marble, and their inner masonry, which must be very in-
genious, is therefore not discernible. They have settled a little,
as might have been expected, and the consequence is, that
there is in every one of them, except the upright arch of the
treasury, a small fissure across the marble of the flanks.
§ xxvi. Though, however, the Venetian builders adopted
these Arabian forms of arch where grace of ornamentation was
their only purpose, they saw that such arrangements were unfit
for ordinary work; and there is no instance, I believe, in
* Or in their own curves; as, on a small scale, in the balustrade fig. 6,
Plate XHL, above.
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 251
Venice, of their having used any of them for a dwelling-house
in the truly Byzantine period. But so soon as the Gothic in-
fluence began to be felt, and the pointed arch forced itself
upon them, their first concession to its attack was the adoption,
in preference to the round arch, of the form 3 a (Plate XIY.,
above) ; the point of the Gothic arch forcing itself up, as 'it
were, through the top of the semicircle which it was soon to
supersede.
§ xxvu. The woodcut above, Fig. XXVL, represents the
door and two of the lateral windows of a house in the Corte
del Remer, facing the Grand Canal, in the parish of the Apos-
toli. It is remarkable as having its great entrance on the -first
floor, attained by a bold flight of steps, sustained on pure
pointed arches wrought in brick. I cannot tell if these arches
are contemporary with the building, though it must always
have had an access of the kind. The rest of its aspect is
Byzantine, except only that the rich sculptures of its archivolt
show in combats of animals, beneath the soffit, a beginning of
the Gothic fire and energy. The moulding of its plinth is of
a Gothic profile,* and the windows are pointed, not with a re-
versed curve, but in a pure straight gable, very curiously con-
trasted with the delicate bending of the pieces
of marble armor cut for the shoulders of each Fis- x^Jn-
arch. There is a two-lighted window, such
as that seen in the vignette, on each side of
the door, sustained in the centre by a basket-
worked Byzantine capital : the mode of
covering the brick archivolt with marble,
both in the windows and doorway, is precisely like that of
the true Byzantine palaces.
§ xxvin. But as, even on a small scale, these arches are
weak, if executed in brickwork, the appearance of this sharp
point in the outline was rapidly accompanied by a parallel
change in the method of building ; and instead of constructing
the arch of brick and coating it with marble, the builders
* For all details of this kind, the reader is referred to the final Appendix
in Vol. III.
252
SECOND PERIOD.
formed it of three pieces of liewn stone inserted in the wall,
as in Fig. XXVII. Not, however, at first in this perfect form.
The endeavor to reconcile the grace of the reversed arch with
the strength of the round one, and still to build in brick,
ended at first in conditions such as that represented at a, Fig.
Fig, xxvm.
XXVIII., which is a window in the Calle del Pistor, close xo
the church of the Apostoli, a very interesting and perfect ex-
ample. Here, observe, the poor round arch is still kept to do
all the hard work, and the fantastic ogee takes its pleasure
above, in the form of a moulding merely, a chain of bricks
cast to the required curve. And this condition, translated into
stone-work, becomes a window of the second order (5, Fig.
XXVIII., or 2, in Plate XIV.) ; a form perfectly strong and
serviceable, and of immense importance in the transitional
architecture of Venice.
§ xxix. At J, Fig. X5TVIIL, as above, is given one of the
earliest and simplest occurrences of the second order window
(in a double group, exactly like the brick transitional form a\
from a most important fragment of a defaced house in the
Salizzada San Lio, close to the Merceria. It is associated
with a fine pointed brick arch, indisputably of contemporary
work, towards the close of the thirteenth century, and it
is shown to be later than the previous example, <z, by the
greater developement of its mouldings. The archivolt pro-
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 253
file, indeed, is the simpler of the two, not having the sub-
arch ; as in the brick example ; but the other mouldings are
far more developed. Fig. XXIX. shows at
1 the arch profiles, at 2 the capital profiles, at
3 the basic-plinth profiles, of each window, a
and b.
' § xxx. But the second order window
soon attained nobler developement. At once
simple, graceful, and strong, it was received
into all the architecture of the period, and
there is hardly a street in Venice which does
not exhibit some important remains of palaces
built with this form of window in many
stories, and in numerous groups. The most
extensive and perfect is one upon the Grand
Canal in the parish of the Apostoli, near the
Rialto, covered with rich decoration, in the
Byzantine manner, between the windows of
its first story ; but not completely character-
istic of the transitional period, because still
retaining the dentil in the arch mouldings,
while the transitional houses all have the sim-
ple roll. Of the fully established type, one
of the most extensive and perfect examples is in a court in the
Calle di Bimedio, close to the Ponte dell' Angelo, near St.
Mark's Place. Another looks out upon a small square garden,
one of the few visible in the centre of Yenice, close by the
Corte Salviati (the latter being known to every cicerone as
that from which Bianca Capello fled). But, on the whole, the
most interesting to the traveller is that of which I have given
a vignette opposite.
But for this range of windows, the little piazza SS. Apostoli
would be one of the least picturesque in Venice ; to those,
however, who seek it on foot, it becomes geographically inter-
esting from the extraordinary involution of the alleys leading
to it from the Rialto. In Venice, the straight road is usually
by water, and the long road- by land ; but the difference uf
254 SECOND PEEIOD.
distance appears, in this case, altogether inexplicable. Twenty
or thirty strokes of the oar will bring a gondola from the foot
of the Bialto to that of the Ponte SS. Apostoli ; but the un-
wise pedestrian, who has not noticed the white clue beneath
his feet,* may think himself fortunate, if, .after a quarter of an
hour's wandering among the houses behind the Fondaco de'
Tedeschi, he finds himself anywhere in the neighborhood • of
the point -he seeks. With much patience, however, and modest
following of the guidance of the marble thread, he will at last
emerge over a steep bridge into the open space of the Piazza,
rendered cheerful in autumn by a perpetual market of pome-
granates, and purple gourds, like enormous black figs ; while
the canal, at its extremity, is half -blocked up by barges laden
with vast baskets of grapes as black as charcoal, thatched over
with their own leaves.
Looking back, on the other side of this canal, he will see
the windows represented in Plate XV., which, with the arcade
of pointed arches beneath them, are the remains of the palace
once belonging to the unhappy doge, Marino Faliero.
The balcony is, of course, modern, and the series of win-
dows has been of greater extent, once terminated by a pilaster
on the left hand, as well as on the right ; but the terminal
arches have been walled up. What remains, however, is
enough, with its sculptured birds and dragons, to give the
reader a very distinct idea of the second order window in its
perfect form. The details of the capitals, and other minor
portions, if these interest him, he will find given in the final
Appendix.
§ xxxi. The advance of the Gothic spirit was, for a few
years, checked by this compromise between the round and
pointed arch. The truce, however, was at last broken, in con-
* Two threads of white marble, each about an inch wide, inlaid in the
dark grey pavement, indicate the road to the Rialto from the farthest ex-
tremity of the north quarter of Venice. The peasant or traveller, lost in the
intricacy of the pathway in this portion of the city, cannot fail, after a few
experimental traverses, to cross these white lines, which thenceforward he
has nothing to do but to follow, though their capricious sinuosities will try
his patience not a little.
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 255
sequence of the discovery that, the keystone would do duty quite
as well in the form b as in the form a, Fig. XXX., and the sub-
stitution of J, at the head of the arch, gives us
the window of the third order, 3 5, 3 d, and 3 Fig. xxx.
e, in Plate XIY. The forms 3 a and 3 c are y\ /\
exceptional; the first occurring, as we have C— 7 \XS/
seen, in the Corte del Reiner, and in one # 5
other palace on the Grand Canal, close to the
Church of St. Eustachio ; the second only, as far as I know, in
one house on the Canna-Reggio, belonging to the true Gothic
period. The other three examples, 3 &, 3 d, 3 e, are generally
characteristic of the third order ; and it will be observed that
they differ not merely in mouldings, but in slope of sides, and
this latter difference is by far the most material. For in the
example 3 5 there is hardly any time Gothic expression ; it is
still the pure Byzantine arch, with a point thrust up through
it : but the moment the flanks slope, as in 3 d, the Gothic ex-
pression is definite, and the entire school of the architecture is
changed.
This slope of the flanks occurs, first, in so slight a degree
as to be hardly perceptible, and gradually increases until, reach-
ing the form 3 e at the close of the thirteenth century, the
window is perfectly prepared for a transition into the fifth
order.
§ xxxn. The most perfect examples of the third order in
Venice are the windows of the ruined palace of Marco Querini,
the father-in-law of Bajamonte Tiepolo, in consequence of
whose conspiracy against the government this palace was
ordered to be razed in 1310 ; but it was only partially ruined,
and was afterwards used as the common shambles. The Vene-
tians have now made a poultry market of the lower story (the
shambles being removed to a suburb), and a prison of the
upper, though it is one of the most important and interesting
monuments in the city, and especially valuable as giving us a
secure date for the central form of these very rare transitional
windows. For, as it was the palace of the father-in-law of
Bajarnonte, and the latter was old enough to assume the leader-
256
SECOND PERIOD.
ship of a political faction in 1280,* the date of the accession to
the throne of the Doge Pietro Gradenigo, we are secure of
this palace having been built not later than the middle of the
thirteenth century. Another example, less refined in work-
manship, but, if possible, still more ^interesting, owing to the
Fig. XXXT.
variety of its capitals, remains in the little piazza opening to
the Kialto, on the St. Mark's side of the Grand Canal. The
house faces the bridge, and its second story has been built in
the thirteenth century, above a still earlier Byzantine cornice
remaining, or perhaps introduced from some other ruined edi-
fice, in the walls of the first floor. The windows of the second
story are of pure third order ; four of them are represented
above, with their flanking pilaster, and capitals varying con-
stantly in the form of the flower or leaf introduced between
their volutes.
§ xxxm. Another most important example exists in the
lower story of the Casa Sagredo, on the Grand Canal, remark-
able as having the early upright form (3 5, Plate XIY.) with
a somewhat late moulding. Many others occur in the frag-
mentary ruins in the streets : but the two boldest conditions
which I found in Venice are those of the Chapter-House of
the Frari, in which the Doge Francesco Dandolo was "buried
circa 1339 ; and those of the flank of the Ducal Palace itself
* An account of the conspiracy of Bajamonte may be found in almost
any Venetian history ; the reader may consult Mutinelli, Annali Urbani,
lib. iii.
VII. GOTHIC PALACES.
257
Fig. XXXEI.
absolutely corresponding with those of the Frari, and therefore
of inestimable value in determining the date of the palace. Of
these more hereafter.
§ xxxiv. Contemporarily with these windows of the second
and third orders, those of the fourth (4 a and 4 5, in Plate
XIY.) occur, at first in pairs, and with simple mouldings, pre-
cisely similar to those of the second order, but much more rare,
as in the example at the side, Fig.
XXXII., from, the Salizada San
Lio ; and then, enriching their
mouldings as shown in the con-
tinuous series 4 c, 4 d, of Plate
XIY., associate themselves with
the fifth order windows of the
perfect Gothic period. There is
hardly a palace in Venice with-
out some example, either early or
late, of these fourth order win-
dows ; but the Plate opposite (XVI.) represents one of their
purest groups at the close of the thirteenth century, from a
house on the Grand Canal, nearly opposite the Church of the
Scalzi. I have drawn it from the side, in order that the great
depth of the arches may be seen, and the clear detaching of
the shafts from the sheets of glass behind. The latter, as well
as the balcony, are comparatively modern; but there is no
doubt that if glass were used in the old window, it was set be-
hind the shafts, at the same depth. The entire modification
of the interiors of all the Venetian houses by recent work has
however prevented me from entering into any inquiry as to
the manner in which the ancient glazing was attached to the
interiors of the windows.
The fourth order window is found in great richness and
beauty at Verona, down to the latest Gothic times, as well as
in the earliest, being then more frequent than any other form.
It occurs, on a grand scale, in the old palace of the Scaligers,
and profusely throughout the streets of the city. The series
4 a to 4 e, Plate XIV., shows its most ordinary conditions
258
SECOKD PERIOD.
and changes of arch-line : 4 a and 4 l> are the early Venetian
forms ; 4 c, later, is general at Venice ; 4 <?, the best and
most piquant condition, owing to its fantastic and bold projec-
tion of cusp, is common to Venice and Verona ; 4 e is early
Veronese.
§ xxxv. The reader will see at once, in descending to the
fifth row in Plate XIV., representing the windows of the fifth
order, that they are nothing more than a combination of the
third and fourth. -By this union they become the nearest
approximation to a perfect Gothic f onn which occurs charac-
teristically at Venice ; and we shall therefore pause on the
threshold of this final change, to glance back upon, and gather
together, those fragments of purer pointed architecture which
were above noticed as the forlorn hopes of the Gothic assault.
Fig. XXXIV.
Fig.
The little Campiello San Eocco is entered by a sotto-portico
behind the church of the Frari. Looking back, the upper
traceries of the magnificent apse are seen towering above the
irregular roofs and chimneys of the little square ; and our lost
Prout was enabled to bring the whole subject into an ex-
quisitely picturesque composition, by the fortunate occurrence
of four quaint trefoiled windows in one of the houses on the
right. Those trefoils are among the most ancient efforts of
Gothic art in Venice. I have given a rude sketch of them in
Fig. XXXIII. They are built entirely of brick, except the
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 259
central shaft and capital, which are of Istrian stone. Tlieir
structure is the simplest possible ; the trefoils being cut out of
the radiating bricks which form the pointed arch, and the edge
or upper limit of that pointed arch indicated by a roll mould-
ing formed of cast bricks, in length of about a foot, and ground
at the bottom so as to meet in one, as in Fig. XXXIY. The
capital of the shaft is one of the earliest transitional forms ; *
and observe the curious following out, even in this minor in-
stance, of the great law of centralization above explained with
respect to the Byzantine palaces. There is a central shaft, a
pilaster on each side, and then the wall. The pilaster has, by
way of capital, a square flat brick, projecting a little, and cast,
at the edge, into the form of the first type of all cornices (a, p.
63, Yol. I. ; the reader ought to glance back at this passage, if
he has forgotten it) ; and the shafts and pilasters all stand,
without any added bases, on a projecting plinth of the same
simple profile. These windows have been much defaced ;, but
I have not the least doubt that their plinths are the original
ones: and the whole group is one of the most valuable in
Venice, as showing the way in which the humblest houses, in
the noble times, followed out the system of the larger palaces,
as far as they could, in their rude materials. It is not often
that the dwellings of the lower orders are preserved to us from
the thirteenth century.
§ xxxvi. In the two upper lines of the opposite Plate
(XVIL), I have arranged some of the more delicate and finished
examples of Gothic work of this period. Of these, fig. 4- is
taken from the out;er arcade of San Fermo of Verona, to show
the condition of mainland architecture, from which all these
Venetian types were borrowed. This arch, together with the
rest of the arcade, is wrought in fine stone, with a band of in-
laid red brick, the whole chiselled and fitted with exquisite
precision, all Venetian work being coarse in comparison.
Throughout the streets of Verona, arches and windows of the
thirteenth century are of continual occurrence, wrought, in
* See account of series of capitals iu final Appendix.
260 SECOND PEEIOD.
this manner, with brick and stone ; sometimes the brick alter-
nating with the stones of the arch, as in the finished example
given in Plate XIX. of the first volume, and there selected in
preference to other examples of archivolt decoration, because
furnishing a complete type of the master school from which
the Venetian Gothic is derived. .
§ xxxvn. The arch from St. Fermo, however, fig. 4, Plate
XYIL, corresponds more closely, in its entire simplicity, with
the little windows from the Campiello San Rocco ; and with
the type 5 set beside it in Plate XVIL, from a very ancient
house in the Corte del Forno at Santa Marina (all in brick) ; while
the upper examples, 1 and 2, show the use of the flat but highly
enriched architrave, for the connection of which with Byzantine
work see the final Appendix, Vol. III., under the head "Archi-
volt." These windows (figs. 1 and 2, Plate XVIL) are from
a narrow alley in a part of Venice now exclusively inhabited
by the lower orders, close to the arsenal ; * they are entirely
wrought in brick, with exquisite mouldings, not cast, but
moulded in the clay by the hand, so that there is not one
piece of the arch like another ; the pilasters and shafts being,
as usual, of stone.
§ xxxvm. And here let me pause for a moment, to note
what one should have thought was well enough known in Eng-
land,— yet I could not perhaps touch upon anything less con-
sidered,— the real use of brick. Our fields of good clay were
never given us to be made into oblong morsels of one size.
They were given us that we might play with them, and that
men who could not handle a chisel, might knead out of them
some expression of human thought. In the ancient architeo-
ture of the clay districts of Italy, every possible adaptation of
the material is found exemplified : from the coarsest and most
* If the traveller desire to find them (and they are worth seeking), let
him row from the Fondamenta S. Biagio down the Rio della Tana; and
look, on his right, for a low house with windows in it like those in the
woodcut No. XXXI. above, p. 256. Let him go in at the door of the
portico in the middle of this house, and he will find himself in a small alley,
with the windows in question on each side of him.
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 201
brittle kinds, used in the mass of the structure, to tuicks for
arches and plinths, cast in the most perfect curves, and of
almost every size, strength, and hardness ; and moulded bricks,
wrought into flower- work and tracery as fine as raised patterns
upon china. And, just as many of the finest works of the
Italian sculptors were executed in porcelain, many of the best
thoughts of their architects are expressed in brick, or in the
softer material of terra cotta ; and if this were so in Italy,
where there is not one city from whose towers we may not
descry the blue outline of Alp or Apennine, everlasting quar-
ries of granite or marble, how much more ought it to be so
among the fields of England ! I believe that the best academy
for her architects, for some half century to come, would be
the brick-field ; for of this they may rest assured, that till
they know how to use clay, they will never know how to use
marble.
§ xxxix. And now observe, as we pass from fig. 2 to fig.
3, and from fig. 5 to fig. 6, in Plate XVIL, a most interest-
ing step of transition. As we saw above, § xiv., the round
arch yielding to the Gothic, by allowing a point to emerge at
its summit, so here we have the Gothic conceding something
to the form which had been assumed by the round ; and itself
slightly altering its outline so as to meet the condescension of
the round arch half way. At page 137 of the first volume, I
have drawn to scale one of these minute concessions of the
pointed arch, granted at Yerona out of pure courtesy to the
Venetian forms, by one of the purest Gothic ornaments in the
world ; and the small window here, fig. 6, is a similar example
at Venice itself, from the Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini,
where the reversed curve at the head of the pointed arch is
just perceptible and no more. The other examples, figs. $ and
7, the first from a small but very noble house in the Merceria,
the second from _an isolated palace at Murano, show more
advanced conditions of the reversed curve, which, though still
employing the broad decorated architrave of the earlier exam-
ples, are in all other respects prepared for the transition to the
simple window of the fifth order.
262 SECOND PERIOD.
| XL. The next example, the uppermost of the three lower
series in Plate XYIL, shows this order in its early purity ;
associated with intermediate decorations like those of the
Byzantines, from a palace once belonging to the Erizzo family,
near the Arsenal. The ornaments appear to be actually of
Greek workmanship (except, perhaps, the two birds over the
central arch, which are bolder, and more free in treatment),
and built into the Gothic fronts ; showing, however, the early
date of the whole by the manner of their insertion, corre-
sponding exactly with that employed in the Byzantine palaces,
and by the covering of the intermediate spaces with sheets
of marble, which, however, instead of being laid over the
entire wall, are now confined to the immediate spaces be-
tween and above the windows, and are bounded by a dentil
moulding.
In the example below this the Byzantine ornamentation
has vanished, and the fifth order window is seen in its generic
form, as commonly employed throughout the early Gothic
period. Such arcades are of perpetual occurrence ; the one
in the Plate was taken from a small palace on the Grand
Canal, nearly opposite , the Casa Foscari. One point in it
deserves especial notice, the increased size of the lateral win-
dow as compared with the rest : a circumstance which occurs
in a great number of the groups of windows belonging to this
period, and for which I have never been able to account.
§ XLI. Both these figures have been most carefully en-
graved ; and the uppermost will give the reader a perfectly
faithful idea of the genera] effect of the Byzantine sculptures,
and of the varied alabaster among which they are inlaid, as
well as of the manner in which these pieces are set together,
every joint having been drawn on the spot : and the transition
from the embroidered and silvery richness of this architecture,
in which the Byzantine ornamentation was associated with the
Gothic form of arch, to the simplicity of the pure Gothic
arcade as seen in the lower figure, is one of the most remark-
able phenomena in the history of Venetian art. If it had
occurred suddenly, and at an earlier period, it might have
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 263
been traced partly to the hatred of the Greeks, consequent
upon the treachery of Manuel Comnenus,* and the fatal war
to which it led ; but the change takes place gradually, and not
till a much later period. I hoped to have been able to make
some careful inquiries into the habits of domestic life of the
Venetians before and after the dissolution of their friendly
relations with Constantinople ; but the labor necessary for the
execution of my more immediate task has entirely prevented
this : and I must be content to lay the succession of the archi-
tectural styles plainly before the reader, and leave the collat-
eral questions to the investigation of others ; merely nothing
this one assured fact, that the root of all that is greatest in
Christian art is struck in the thirteenth century ; that the
temper of that century is the life-blood of all manly work
thenceforward in Europe ; and I suppose that" one of its pecu-
liar characteristics was elsewhere, as assuredly in Florence, a
singular simplicity in domestic life :
I saw Bellincion Berti walk abroad
In leathern girdle, and a clasp of bone;
And, with no artful coloring on her cheeks,
His lady leave the glass. The sons I saw
Of Verli and of Vecchio, well content
With unrobed jerkin, and their good dames handling
The spindle and the flax.
One waked to tend the cradle, hushing it
With sounds that lulled the parents' infancy;
* The bitterness of feeling with which the Venetians must have remem-
bered this, was probably the cause of their magnificent heroism in the final
siege of the city under Dandolo, and, partly, of the excesses which dis-
graced their victory. The conduct of the allied army of the Crusaders on
this occasion cannot, however, be brought in evidence of general barbarism
in the thirteenth century : first, because the masses of the crusading armies
were in great part composed of the refuse of the nations of Europe ; and
secondly, because such a mode of argument might lead us to inconvenient
conclusions respecting ourselves, so long as the horses of the Austrian cav-
alry are stabled in the cloister of the convent which contains the Last Sup-
per of Leonardo da Vinci. See Appendix 3, Vol. III. : "Austrian Govern-
ment in Italy."
264 SECOND PEEIOD.
Another, with her maidens, drawing off
The tresses from the distaff, lectured them
Old tales of Troy, and Fesole, and Rome." *
§ XLH. Such, then, is the simple fact at Venice, that from
the beginning of the thirteenth century there is found a sin-
gular increase of simplicity in all architectural ornamentation ;
the rich Byzantine capitals giving place to a pure and severe
type hereafter to be described,f and the rich sculptures vanish-
ing from the walls, nothing but the marble facing remaining.
One of the most interesting examples of this transitional state
is a palace at San Severo, just behind the Casa Zorzi. This
latter is a Renaissance building, utterly worthless in every
respect, but known to the Yenetian Ciceroni ; and by inquir-
ing for it, and passing a little beyond it down the Fondamenta
San Severo, the traveller will see, on the other side of the
canal, a palace which the Ciceroni never notice, but which is
unique in Yenice for the magnificence of the veined purple
alabasters with which it has been decorated, and for the manly
simplicity of the foliage of its capitals. Except in these, it
has no sculpture whatever, and its effect is dependent entirely
on color. Disks of green serpentine- are inlaid on the field
of purple alabaster; and the pillars are alternately of red
marble with white capitals, and of white marble with red
capitals. Its windows appear of the third order ; and the back
*It is generally better to read ten lines of any poet In the original lan-
guage, however painfully, than ten cantos of a translation. But an excep-
tion may be made in favor of Gary's Dante. If no poet ever was liable to
lose more in translation, none was ever so carefully translated; and I
hardly know whether most to admire the rigid fidelity, or the sweet and
solemn harmony, of Gary's verse. There is hardly a fault in the fragment
quoted above, except the word "lectured," for Dante's beautiful "favo-
leggiava ;" and even in this case, joining the first words of the following
line, the translation is strictly literal. It is true that the conciseness and
the rivulet-like melody of Dante must continually be lost; but if I could
only read English, and had to choose, for a library narrowed by poverty,
between Gary's Dante and our own original Milton, I should choose Cary
without an instant's pause.
f See final Appendix, Vol. III., under head " Capitals."
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 265
of the palace, in a small and most picturesque court, shows a
group of windows which are, perhaps, the most superb exam-
ples of that order in Venice. But the windows to the front
have, I think, been of the fifth order, and their cusps have
been cut away.
§ XLIII. When the Gothic feeling began more decidedly to
establish itself, it evidently became a question with the Vene-
tian builders, how the intervals between the arches, now left
blank by the abandonment of the Byzantine sculptures, should
be enriched in accordance with the principles of the new
school. Two most important examples are left of the experi-
ments made at this period : one at the Ponte del Fomer, at
San Cassano, a noble house in which the spandrils of the win-
dows are filled by the emblems of the four Evangelists, sculp-
tured in deep relief, and touching the edges of the arches with
their expanded wings ; the other now known as the Palazzo
Cicogna, near the church of San Sebastiano, in the quarter
called " of the Archangel Raphael," in which a large space of
wall above the windows is occupied by an intricate but rude
tracery of involved quatrefoils. Of both these palaces I pur-
posed to give drawings in my folio work ; but I shall probably
be saved the trouble by the publication of the beautiful calo-
types lately made at Venice of both ; and it is unnecessary to
represent them here, as they are unique in Venetian architec-
ture, with the single exception of an unimportant imitation of
the first of them in a little by-street close to the Campo Sta.
Maria Formosa. For the question as to the mode of decorat-
ing the interval between the arches was suddenly and irrevo-
cably determined by the builder of the Ducal Palace, who,
as we have seen, taking his first idea from the traceries of the
Fran, and arranging those traceries as best fitted his own pur-
pose, designed the great arcade (the lowest of the three in
Plate XVII.), which thenceforward became the established
model for every work of importance in Venice. The palaces
built on this model, however, most of them not till the begin-
ning of the fifteenth century, belong properly to the time of
the Renaissance ; and what little we have to note respecting
266 SECOND PERIOD.
them may be more clearly stated in connexion with other facts
characteristic of that period.
§ XLIV. As the examples in Plate XVII. are necessarily
confined to the upper parts of the windows, I have given in
the Plate opposite (XYIIL*) examples of the fifth order
window, both in its earliest and in its fully developed form,
completed from base to keystone. The upper example is a
beautiful group from a small house, never of any size or pre-
tension, and now inhabited only by the poor, in the Campiello
della Strope, close to the Church of San Giacomo de Lorio.
It is remarkable for its excessive purity of curve, and is of
very early date, its mouldings being simpler than usual, f The
lower example is from the second story of a palace belonging
to the Priuli family, near San Lorenzo, and shows one feature
to which our attention has not hitherto been directed, namely,
the penetration of the cusp, leaving only a silver thread of
stone traced on the darkness of the window. I need not say
that, in this condition, the cusp ceases to have any constructive
use, and is merely decorative, but often exceedingly beautiful.
The steps of transition from the early solid cusp to this slender
thread are noticed in the final Appendix, under the head
" Tracery Bars ;" the commencement of the change being in
the thinning of the stone, which is not cut through until it is
thoroughly emaciated. Generally speaking, the condition in
which the cusp is found is a useful test of age, when compared
with other points ; the more solid it is, the more ancient : but
the massive form is often found associated with the perforated,
as late as the beginning of the fourteenth century. In the
Ducal Palace, the lower or bearing traceries have the solid
cusp, and the upper traceries of the windows, which are
merely decorative, have the perforated cusp, both with ex-
quisite effect.
§ XLV. The smaller balconies between the great shafts in
the lower example in Plate XYIII. are original and character-
* This Plate is not from a drawing of mine. It has been engraved by
Mr. Armytage, with great skill, from two daguerreotypes.
\ Vide final Appendix, under head " Archivolt."
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 26?
istic : not so the lateral one of the detached window, which
has been restored ; but by imagining it to be like that repre-
sented in fig. 1, Plate XIII., above, which is a perfect window
of the finest time of the fifth order, the reader will be enabled
to form a complete idea of the external appearance of the
principal apartments in the house of a noble of Venice, at the
beginning of the fourteenth century.
§ XLVI. Whether noble, or merchant, or, as frequently hap-
pened, both, every Venetian appears, at this time, to have
raised his palace or dwelling-house upon one type. Under
every condition of importance, through every variation of
size, the forms and mode of decoration of all the features
were universally alike ; not servilely alike, but fraternally ;
not with the sameness of coins cast from one mould, but with
the likeness of the members of one family. No fragment of
the period is preserved, in which the windows, be they few
or many, a group of three or an arcade of thirty, have not
"the noble cusped arch of the fifth order. And they are espe-
cially to be noted by us at this day, because these refined and
richly ornamented forms were used in the habitations of a
nation as laborious, as practical, as brave, and as prudent as
ourselves ; and they were built at a time when that nation
was struggling with calamities and changes threatening its
existence almost every hour. And, farther, they are interest-
ing because perfectly applicable to modern habitation. The
refinement of domestic life appears to have been far advanced
in Venice from her earliest days ; and the remains of her
Gothic palaces are, at this day, the most delightful residences
in the city, having undergone no change in external form, and
probably having been rather injured than rendered more con-
venient by the modifications which poverty and Renaissance
taste, contending with the ravages of time, have introduced
in the interiors. So that, in Venice, and the cities grouped
around it, Vicenza, Padua, and Verona, the traveller may ascer-
tain, by actual experience, the effect which would be produced
upon the comfort or luxury of daily life by the revival of the
Gothic school of architecture. He can still stand upon the
268 SECOKD PERIOD.
marble balcony in the soft summer air, and feel its smooth
surface warm from the noontide as he leans on it in the twi-
light ; he can still see the strong sweep of the unruined
traceries drawn on the deep serenity of the starry sky, and
watch the fantastic shadows of the clustered arches shorten
in the moonlight on the chequered floor ; or he may close the
casements fitted to their unshaken shafts against such wintry
winds as would have made an English house vibrate to its
foundation, and, in either case, compare their influence on his
daily home feeling with that of the square openings in his
English wall.
§ XL vii. And let him be assured, if he find there is more
to be enjoyed in the Gothic window, there is also more to be
trusted. It is the best and strongest building, as it is the
most beautiful. I am not now speaking of the particular
form of Yenetian Gothic, but of the general strength of the
pointed arch as opposed to that of the level lintel of the
square window ; and I plead for the introduction of the
Gothic form into our domestic architecture, not merely be-
cause it is lovely, but because it is the only form of faithful,
strong, enduring, and honorable building, in such materials as
come daily to our hands. By increase of scale and cost, it is
possible to build, in any style, what will last for ages ; but only
in the Gothic is it possible to give security and dignity to
work wrought with imperfect means and materials. And I
trust that there will come a time when the English people
may see the folly of building basely and insecurely. It is
common with those architects against whose practice my writ-
ings have hitherto been directed, to call them merely theoreti-
cal and imaginative. I answer, that there is not a single prin-
ciple asserted either in the " Seven Lamps" or here, but is of
the simplest, sternest veracity, and the easiest practicability ;
that buildings, raised as I would have them, would stand un-
shaken for a thousand years ; and the buildings raised by the
architects who oppose them will not stand for one hundred
and fifty, they sometimes do not stand for an hour. There is
hardly a week passes without some catastrophe brought about
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 2G9
by the base principles of modern building ; some vaultless
floor that drops the staggering crowd through the jagged rents
of its rotten timbers; some baseless bridge that is washed
away by the first wave of a summer flood ; some fungous wall
of nascent rottenness that a thunder-shower soaks down with
its workmen into a heap of slime and death.* These we hear
of, day by day : yet these indicate but the thousandth part of
the evil. The portion of the national income sacrificed in
mere bad building, in the perpetual repairs, and swift con-
demnation and pulling down of ill-built shells of houses,
passes all calculation. And the weight of the penalty is not
yet felt ; it will tell upon our children some fifty years hence,
when the cheap work, and contract work, and stucco and
plaster work, and bad iron work, and all the other expedients
of modern rivalry, vanity, and dishonesty, begin to show them-
selves for what they are.
§ XLVIII. Indeed, dishonesty and false economy will no
more build safely in Gothic than in any other style : but of
all forms which we could possibly employ, to be framed hastily
and out of bad materials, the common square .
window is the worst ; and its level head of
brickwork («, Fig. XXXY.) is the weakest \\\\
way of covering a space. Indeed, in the
hastily heaped shells of modern houses, there
may be seen often- even a worse manner of
placing the bricks, as at J, supporting them
by a bit of lath till the mortar dries ; but
even when worked with the utmost care,
and having every brick tapered into the form of a voussoir
* " On Thursday, the 20th. the front walls of two of the new houses now
building in Victoria Street, Westminster, fell to the ground. . . . The
roof was on, and a massive compo cornice was put up at top, as well as
dressings to the upper windows. The roof is formed by girders and
4i-brick arches in cement, covered with asphalt to form a flat. The failure
is attributed to the quantity of rain which has fallen. Others suppose that
some of the girders were defective, and gave way, carrying the walls with
them." — Builder, for January 29th, 1853. The rest of this volume might
be filled with such notices, if we sought for them.
270 SECOXD PERIOD.
and accurately fitted, I have seen such a window-head give
way, and a wide fissure torn through all the brickwork above
it, two years after it was built ; while the pointed arch of the
Veronese Gothic, wrought in brick also, occurs at every corner
of the streets of the city, untouched since the thirteenth cen-
tury, and without a single flaw.
§ XLIX. Neither can the objection, so often raised against
the pointed arch, that it will not admit the convenient adjust-
ment of modern sashes and glass, hold for an instant. There
is not the smallest necessity, because the arch is pointed, that
the aperture should be so. The work of the arch is to sustain
the building above ; when this is once done securely, the
pointed head of it may be filled in any way we choose. In
the best cathedral doors it is always filled by a shield of solid
stone ; in many early windows of the best Gothic it is filled in
the same manner, the introduced slab of stone becoming a
field for rich decoration ; and there is not the smallest reason
why lancet windows, used in bold groups, with each pointed
arch filled by a sculptured tympanum, should not allow as
much light to enter, and in as convenient a way, as. the most
luxuriously glazed square windows of our brick houses. Give
the groups of associated lights bold gabled canopies ; charge
the gables with sculpture and color ; and instead of the base
and almost useless Greek portico, letting the rain and wind
enter it at will, build the steeply vaulted and completely shel-
tered Gothic porch ; and on all these fields for rich decoration
let the common workman carve what he pleases, to the best
of his power, and we may have a school of domestic architec-
ture in the nineteenth century, which will make our children
grateful to us, and proud of us, till the thirtieth.
§ L. There remains only one important feature to be
examined, the entrance gate or door. We have already
observed that the one seems to pass into the other, a sign
of increased love of privacy rather than of increased humility,
as the Gothic palaces assume their perfect form. In the By-
zantine palaces the entrances appear always to have been rather
great gates than doors, magnificent semicircular arches open-
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 271
ing to the water, and surrounded by rich sculpture in the
archivolts. One of these entrances is seen in the small wood-
cut above, Fig. XXY., and another has been given carefully
in my folio work: their sculpture is generally of grotesque
animals scattered among leafage, without any definite mean-
ing ; but the great outer entrance of St. Mark's, which appears
to have been completed some time after the rest of the fabric,
ditfers from all others in presenting a series of subjects alto-
gether Gothic in feeling, selection, and vitality of execution,
and which show the occult entrance of the Gothic spirit before
it had yet succeeded in effecting any modification of the By-
zantine forms. These sculptures represent the months of the
year employed in the avocations usually attributed to them
throughout the whole compass of the middle ages, in Northern
architecture and manuscript calendars, and at last exquisitely
versified by Spenser. For the sake of the traveller in Venice,
who should examine this archivolt carefully, I shall enumerate
these sculptures in their order, noting such parallel representa-
tions as I remember in other work.
§ LI. There are four successive archivolts, one within the
other, forming the great central entrance of St. Mark's. The
first is a magnificent external arch, formed of obscure figures
mingled among masses of leafage, as in ordinary Byzantine
work ; within this there is a hemispherical dome, covered with
modern mosaic ; and at the back of this recess the other three
archivolts follow consecutively, two sculptured, one plain ; the
one with which we are concerned is the outermost.
It is carved both on its front and under-surface or soffit ;
on the front are seventeen female figures bearing scrolls, from
which the legends are unfortunately effaced. These figures
tvere once gilded on a dark blue ground, as may still be seen in
Gentile Bellini's picture of St. Mark's in the Accademia delle
Belle Arti. The sculptures of the months are on the under-
surface, beginning at the bottom on the left hand of the spec-
tator as he enters, and following in succession round the
archivolt ; separated, however, into two groups, at its centre,
by a beautiful figure of the youthful Christ, sitting in the
272 SECOND PERIOD.
midst of a slightly hollowed sphere covered with stars to
represent the firmament, and with the attendant sun and
moon, set one on each side to rale over the day and over the
night.
§ LII. The months are personified as follows : —
1. JANUARY. Carrying home a noble tree on his shoulders,
the leafage of which nods forwards, and -falls nearly to his
feet. Superbly cut. This is a rare representation of h%n.
More frequently he is represented as the two-headed Janus,
sitting at a table, drinking at one mouth and eating at the
other. Sometimes as an old man, warming his feet at a fire,
and drinking from a bowl; though this type is generally
reserved for February. Spenser, however, gives the same
symbol as that on St. Mark's :
" Numbd with holding all the day
An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood."
His sign, Aquarius, is obscurely indicated in the archivolt
by some wavy lines representing water, unless the figure has
been broken away.
2. FEBRUARY. Sitting in a carved chair, wartning his hare
feet at a blazing fire. Generally, when he is thus repre-
sented, there is a pot hung over the fire, from the top of the
chimney. Sometimes he is pruning trees, as in Spenser :
" Yet had he by his side
His plough and harnesse fit to till the ground,
And tooles to prune the trees."
Not unfrequently, in die calendars, this month is repre-
sented by a female figure carrying candles, in honor of the
Purification of the Virgin.
His sign, Pisces, is prominently carved above him.
3. MARCH. Here, as almost always in Italy, a warrior : the
Mai's of the Latins being of course, in mediaeval work, made
representative of the military power of the place and period ;
and thus, at Venice, having the winged Lion painted upon
iiis shield. In Northern work, however, I think March is
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 273
commonly employed in pruning trees ; or, at least, he is so
when that occupation is left free for him by February's being
engaged with the ceremonies of Candlemas. Sometimes, also,
he is reaping a low and scattered kind of grain ; and by Spenser,
who exactly marks the junction of mediaeval and classical feel-
ing, his military and agricultural functions are united, while
also, in the Latin manner, he is made the first of the months.
" First sturdy March, with brows full sternly bent,
And armed strongly, rode upon a Ram,
The same which over Hellespontus swam;
Yet in his hand a spade he also hent,
And in a bag all sorts of seeds ysame,*
Which on the earth he strowed as he went."
His sign, the Ram, is very superbly carved above him in
the archivolt.
4. APRIL. Here, carrying a sheep upon his shoulder. A
rare representation of him. In Northern work he is almost
universally gathering flowers, or holding them triumphantly
in each hand. The Spenserian mingling of this mediaeval
image with that of his being wet with' showers, and wanton
with love, by turning his zodiacal sign, Taurus, into the bull
of Europa, is altogether exquisite.
" Upon a Bull he rode, the same which led
Europa noting through the Argolick finds:
His horns were gilden all with golden studs,
And garnished with garlonds goodly dight
Of all the fairest flowres and freshest buds
Which th' earth brings forth ; and wet he seemed in sight
With waves, through which he waded for his love's delight."
5. MAY is seated, while two young maidens crown him with
flowers. A very unusual representation, even in Italy ; where,
as in the North, he is almost always riding out hunting or
hawking, sometimes playing on a musical instrument. In
Spenser, this month is personified as " the fayrest mayd on
ground," borne on the shoulders of the Twins.
* " Ysame," collected together.
274 SECOND PERIOD.
In this archivolt there are only two heads to represent the
zodiacal sign.
The summer and autumnal months are always represented
in a series of agricultural occupations, which, of course, vary
with the locality in which they occur ; but generally in their
order only. Thus, if June is mowing, July is reaping; if
July is mowing, August is reaping ; and so on. I shall give
a parallel view of some of these varieties presently ; but, mean-
time, we had better follow the St. Mark's series, as it is peculiar
in some respects.
6. JUNE. Reaping. The corn and sickle sculptured with
singular care and precision, in bold relief, and the zodiacal
sign, the Crab, above, also worked with great spirit. Spenser
puts plough irons into his hand. Sometimes he is sheep-
shearing ; and, in English and northern French manuscripts,
carrying a kind of fagot or barrel, of the meaning of which I
am not certain.
7. JULY. Mowing. A very interesting piece of sculpture,
owing to the care with which the flowers are wrought out
among the long grass. I do not remember ever finding July
but either reaping or mowing. Spenser works him hard, and
puts him to both labors :
" Behinde his backe a si the, and by his side
Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide."
8. AUGUST. Peculiarly represented in this archivolt, sitting
in a chair, with his head upon his hand, as if asleep / the
Virgin (the zodiacal sign) above him, lifting up her hand.
This appears to be a peculiarly Italian version of the proper
employment of August. In Northern countries he is gener-
ally threshing, or gathering grapes. Spenser merely clothes
him with gold, and makes him lead forth
" the righteous Virgin, which of old
Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound."
9. SEPTEMBER. Bearing home grapes in a basket. Almost
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 275
always sowing, in Northern work. By Spenser, with his
usual exquisite ingenuity, employed in gathering in the general
harvest, and portioning it out with the Scales, his zodiacal
sign.
10. OCTOBER. Wearing a conical hat, and digging busily
with a long spade. In Northern work he is sometimes a vin-
tager, sometimes beating the acorns out of an oak to feed swine.
When September is vintaging, October is generally sowing.
Spenser employs him in the harvest both of vine and olive.
11. NOVEMBER. Seems to be catching small birds in a net.
I do not remember him so employed elsewhere. He is nearly
always killing pigs ; sometimes beating the oak for them ; with
Spenser, fatting them.
12. DECEMBER. Killing swine. It is hardly ever that this
employment is not given to one or other of the terminal months
of the year. If not so engaged, December is usually putting
new loaves into the oven ; sometimes killing oxen. Spenser
properly makes him feasting and drinking instead of January.
§ LIII. On the next page I have given a parallel view of the
employment of the months from some Northern manuscripts,
in order that they may be more conveniently compared with
the sculptures of St. Mark's, in their expression of the varie-
ties of climate and agricultural system. Observe that the
letter (f.) in some of the columns, opposite the month of May,
means that he has a falcon on his fist ; being, in those cases,
represented as riding out, in high exultation, on a caparisoned
white horse. A series nearly similar to that of St. Mark's
occurs on the door of the Cathedral of Lucca, and on that of
the Baptistery of Pisa; in which, however, if \ recollect
rightly, February is fishing, and May has something resem-
bling an umbrella in his hand, instead of a hawk. But, in all
cases, the figures are treated with the peculiar spirit of the
Gothic sculptors ; and this archivolt is the first expression of
that spirit which is to be found in Yenice.
276
SECOND PEEIOD.
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§ uv. In the private palaces, the entrances soon admitted
some concession to the Gothic form also. They pass through
nearly the same conditions of change as the windows, with
these three differences: first, that no arches of the fantastic
fourth order occur in any doorways ; secondly that the pure
pointed arch occurs earlier, and much oftener, in doorways
than in window-heads ; lastly, that the entrance itself, if small,
is nearly always square-headed in the earliest examples, without
any arch above, but afterwards the arch is thrown across above
the lintel. The interval between the two, or tympanum, is
filled with sculpture, or closed by iron bars, with sometimes a
projecting gable, to form a porch, thrown over the whole, as
in the perfect example, 7 #, Plate XIV., above. The other
examples in the two lower lines, 6 and 7, of that Plate are
each characteristic of an enormous number of doors, variously
decorated, from the thirteenth to the close of the fifteenth
century. The particulars of their mouldings are given in the
final Appendix.
§ LV. It was useless, on the small scale of this Plate, to
attempt any delineation of the richer sculptures with which
the arches are filled ; so that I have chosen for it the simplest
examples I could find of the forms to be illustrated : but, in
all the more important instances, the door-head is charged
either with delicate ornaments and inlaid patterns in variously
colored brick, or with sculptures, consisting always of the
shield or crest of the family, protected by an angel. Of these
more perfect doorways I have given three examples carefully,
in my folio work ; but I must repeat here one part of the ac-
count of their subjects given in its text, for the convenience of
those to whom the larger work may not be accessible.
§ LVI. " In the earlier ages, all agree thus far, that the name
of the family is told, and together with it there is always an
intimation that they Aiave placed their defence and their
prosperity in God's hands ; frequently accompanied with some
general expression of benediction to the person passing over
the threshold. This is the general theory of an old Venetian
doorway ; — the theory of modern doorways remains to be ex-
278 SECOHD PERIOD.
plained : it may be studied to advantage in our rows of new-
built houses, or rather of new-built house, changeless for
miles together, from which, to each inhabitant, we allot his
proper quantity of windows, and a Doric portico. The Vene-
tian carried out his theory very simply. In the centre of the
archivolt we find almost invariably, in the older work, the
hand between the sun and moon in the attitude of blessing,
expressing the general power and presence of God, the source
of light. On the tympanum is the shield of the family.
Venetian heraldry requires no beasts for supporters, but usually
prefers angels, neither the supporters nor crests forming any
necessary part of Venetian bearings. Sometimes, however,
human figures, or grotesques, are substituted; but, in that
case, an angel is almost always introduced above the shield,
bearing a globe in his left hand, and therefore clearly intended
for the ' Angel of the Lord,' or, as it is expressed elsewhere,
the ' Angel of His Presence.' Where elaborate sculpture of
this kind is inadmissible, the shield is merely represented as
suspended by a leather thong ; and a cross is introduced above
the archivolt. The Renaissance architects perceived the irra-
tionality of all this, cut away both crosses and angels, and
substituted heads of satyrs, which were the proper presiding
deities of Venice in the Renaissance periods, and which in our
own domestic institutions, we have ever since, with much
piety and sagacity, retained."
§ LVII. The habit of employing some religious symbol, or
writing some religious legend, over the door of the house,
does not entirely disappear until far into the period of the
Renaissance. The words " Peace be to this house" occur on
one side of a Veronese gateway, with the appropriate and
veracious inscription S.P.Q.R., on a Roman standard, on the
other ; and " Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the
Lord," is written on one of the doorways of a building added
at the flank of the Casa Barbarigo, in the sixteenth or seven-
teenth century. It seems to be only modern Protestantism
which is entirely ashamed of all symbols and words that
appear in anywise like a confession of faith.
§ Lvra. This peculiar feeling is well worthy of attentive
VII. GOTHIC PALACES. 279
analysis. It indeed, in most cases, hardly deserves the name
of a feeling ; for the meaningless doorway is merely an igno-
rant copy of heathen models : but yet, if it were at this
moment proposed to any of us, by our architects, to remove
the grinning head of a satyr, or other classical or Palladian
ornament, from the keystone of the door, and to substitute
for it a cross, and an inscription testifying our faith, I believe
that most persons would shrink from the proposal with an
obscure and yet overwhelming sense that things would be
sometimes done, and thought, within the house which would
make the inscription on its gate a base hypocrisy. And if so,
let us look to it, whether that strong reluctance to utter a
definite religious profession, which so many of us feel, and
which, not very carefully examining into its dim nature, we
conclude to be modesty, or fear of hypocrisy, or other such
form of amiableness, be not, in very deed, neither less nor
more than Infidelity ; whether Peter's " I know not the man"
be not the sum and substance of all these misgivings and hesi-
tations ; and whether the shamefaoedness which we attribute
to sincerity and reverence, be not such shamefacedness as may
at last put us among those of whom the Son of Man shall be
ashamed.
§ LIX. Such are the principal circumstances to be noted in
the external form and details of the Gothic palaces ; of their
interior arrangements there is little left unaltered. The gate-
ways which we have been examining almost universally lead,
in the earlier palaces, into a long interior court, round which
the mass of the palace is built ; and in which its first story is
reached by a superb external staircase, sustained on four or
five pointed arches gradually increasing as they ascend, both
in height and span, — this change in their size being, so far as
I remember, peculiar to Venice, and visibly a consequence of
the habitual admission of arches of different sizes in the Byzan-
tine facades. These staircases are protected by exquisitely
carved parapets, like those of the outer balconies, with lions
or grotesque heads set on the angles, and with true projecting
balconies on their landing-places. In the centre of the court
there is always a marble well ; and these wells furnish some
280 SECOND PERIOD.
of the most superb examples of Venetian sculpture. I am
aware only of one remaining from the Byzantine period ; it is
octagonal, and treated like the richest of our Norman fonts :
but the Gothic wells of every date, from the thirteenth cen-
tury downwards, are innumerable, and full of beauty, though
their form is little varied ; they being, in almost every case,
treated like colossal capitals of pillars, with foliage at the
angles, and the shield of the family upon their sides.
§ LX. The interior apartments always consist of one noble
hall on the first story, often on the second also, extending
across the entire depth of the house, and lighted in front by
the principal groups of its windows, while smaller apartments
open from it on either side. The ceilings, where they remain
untouched, are of bold horizontal beams, richly carved and
gilded ; but few of these are left from the true Gothic times,
the Venetian interiors having, in almost every case, been re-
modelled by the Renaissance architects. This change, how-
ever, for onee, we cannot regret, as the walls and ceilings,
when so altered, were covered with the noblest works of
Veronese, Titian, and Tintoret ; nor the interior walls only,
but, as before noticed, often the exteriors also. Of the color
decorations of the Gothic exteriors I have, therefore, at present
taken no notice, as it will be more convenient to embrace this
subject in one general view of the systems of coloring of the
Venetian palaces, when we arrive at the period of its richest
developement.* The details, also, of most interest, respecting
the forms and transitional decoration of their capitals, will be
given in the final Appendix to the next volume, where we
shall be able to include in our inquiry the whole extent of the
Gothic period ; and it remains for us, therefore, at present,
only to review the history, fix the date, and note the most
important particulars in the structure of the building which at
once consummates and embodies the entire system of the
Gothic architecture of Venice, — the DUCAL PALACE.
* Vol. III. Chap. L I have had considerable difficulty in the arrange-
ment of these volumes, so as to get the points bearing upon each other
grouped in consecutive and intelligible order.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DUCAL PALACE.
§ i. IT was stated in the commencement of the preceding
chapter that the Gothic art of Venice was separated by the
building of the Ducal Palace into two distinct periods; and
that in all the domestic edifices which were raised for half a
century after its completion, their characteristic and chiefly
effective portions were more or less directly copied from it.
The fact is, that the Ducal Palace was the great work of
Venice at this period, itself the principal effort of her imagina-
tion, employing her best architects in its masonry, and her best
painters in its decoration, for a long series of years ; and we
must receive it as a remarkable testimony to the influence
which it possessed over the minds of those who saw it in its
progress, that, while in the other cities of Italy every palace
and church was rising in some original and daily more daring
form, the majesty of this single building was able to give
pause to the Gothic imagination in its full career ; stayed the
restlessness of innovation in an instant, and forbade the powers
which had created it thenceforth to exert themselves in new
directions, or endeavor to summon an image more attractive.
§ n. The reader will hardly believe that while the architec-
tural invention of the Venetians was thus lost, Narcissus-like,
in self-contemplation, the various accounts of the progress of
the building thus admired and beloved are so confused as fre-
quently to leave it doubtful to what portion of the palace they
refer ; and that there is actually, at the time being, a dispute
between the best Venetian antiquaries, whether the main
fagade of the palace be of the fourteenth or fifteenth century.
The determination of this question is of course necessary before
We proceed to draw any conclusions from the style of the
282 SECOND PERIOD.
work ; an it cannot be determined without a careful review
of the entire history of the palace, and of all the documents
relating to it. I trust that this review may not be found tedi-
ous,— assuredly it will not be fruitless, — bringing many facts
before us, singularly illustrative of the Venetian character.
§ m. Before, however, the reader can enter upon any in-
quiry into, the history of this building, it is necessary that he
should be thoroughly familiar with the arrangement and names
of its principal parts, as it at present stands ; otherwise he can-
not comprehend so much as a single sentence of any of the
documents referring to it. I must do what I can, by the help
of a rough plan and bird's-eye view, to give him the necessary
topographical knowledge :
Fig. XXXVI. opposite is a rude ground plan of the build-
ings round St. Mark's Place ; and the following references will
clearly explain their relative positions :
A. St. Mark's Place.
B. Piazzetta.
P. V. Procuratie Vecchie.
P. N. (opposite) Procuratie Nuove.
P. L. Libreria Vecchia.
I. Piazzetta de' Leoni.
T. Tower of St. Mark.
F F. Great Facade of St. Mark's Church.
M. St. Mark's. (It is so united with the Ducal Palace, that the separa-
tion cannot be indicated in the plan, unless all the walls had been
marked, which would have confused the whole.)
D D D. Ducal Palace. g s. Giant's stair.
C. Court of Ducal Palace. J. Judgment angle,
c. Porta della Carta. a. Fig-tree angle.
p p. Ponte della Paglia (Bridge of Straw).
S. Ponte de' Sospiri (Bridge' of Sighs).
R R. Riva de' Schiavoni.
' The reader-will observe that the Ducal Palace is arranged
somewhat in the form of a hollow square, of which one side
faces the Piazzetta, B, and another the quay called the Riva
de' Schiavoni, R R, ; the third is on the dark canal called the
"Rio del Palazzo," and the fourth joins the Church of St.
Mark.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 283
Of this fourth side, therefore, nothing can be seen. Of the
other three sides we shall have to speak constantly ; and they
will be respectively called, that towards the Piazzetta, the
" Piazzetta Fagade ; " that towards the Riva de' Schiavoni, the
" Sea Facade ; " and that towards the Rio del Palazzo, the
" Rio Fa§ade." This Rio, or canal, is usually looked upon by
the traveller with great respect, or even horror, because it
passes under the Bridge of Sighs. It is, however, one of the
principal thoroughfares of the city; and the bridge and its
canal together occupy, in the mind of a Venetian, very much
the position of Fleet Street and Temple Bar in that of a Lon-
doner,:— at least, at the time when Temple Bar was occasionally
decorated with human heads. The two buildings closely re-
semble each other in form.
§ iv. We must now proceed to obtain some rough idea of
the appearance and distribution of the palace itself; but its
arrangement will be better understood by supposing ourselves
raised some hundred and fifty feet above the point in the
lagoon in front of it, so as to get a general view of the Sea
Facade and Rio Facade (the latter in very steep perspective),
and to look down into its interior court. Fig. XXXVII. roughly
represents such a view, omitting all details on the roofs, in order
to avoid confusion. In this drawing we have merely to notice
that, of the two bridges seen on the right, the uppermost,
above the black canal, is the Bridge of Sighs ; the lower one
is the Ponte della Paglia, the regular thoroughfare from quay
to quay, and, I believe, called the Bridge of Straw, because
the boats which brought straw from the mainland used to sell
it at this place. The corner of the palace, rising above this
bridge, and formed by the meeting of the Sea Facade and Rio
Facade, will always be called the Vine angle, because it is
decorated by a sculpture of the drunkenness of Noah. The
angle opposite will be called the Fig-tree angle, because it is
decorated by a sculpture of the Fall of Man. The long and
narrow range of building, of which the roof is seen in perspec-
tive behind this angle, is the part of the palace fronting the
Piazzetta ; and the angle under the pinnacle most to the left
284 SECOND PERIOD.
of the two which terminate it will be called, for a reason pres-
ently to be stated, the Judgment angle. Within the square
formed by the building is seen its interior court (with one of
its wells), terminated by small and fantastic buildings of the
Renaissance period, which face the Giant's Stair, of which
the extremity is seen sloping down on the left.
§ v. The great fa§ade which fronts the spectator looks
southward. Hence the two traceried windows lower than the
rest, and to the right of the spectator, may be conveniently
distinguished as the " Eastern Windows." There are two
others like them, filled with tracery, and at the same level,
which look upon the narrow canal between the Ponte della
Paglia and the Bridge of Sighs : these we may conveniently
call the " Canal Windows." The reader will observe a verti-
cal line in this dark side of the palace, separating its nearer
and plainer wall from a long four-storied range of rich archi-
tecture. This more distant range is entirely Renaissance : its
extremity is not indicated, because I have no accurate sketch
of the small buildings and bridges beyond it, and we shall have
nothing whatever to do with this part of the palace in our
present inquiry. The nearer and undecorated wall is part of
the older palace, though much defaced by modern opening of
common windows, refittings of the brickwork, &e.
§ vi. It will be observed that the facade is composed of a
smooth mass of wall, sustained on two tiers of pillars, one
above the other. The manner in which these support the whole
fabric will be understood at once by the rough section, fig.
XXXVIIL, which is supposed to be taken
right through the palace to the interior court,
from near the middle of the Sea Facade. Here
a and d are the rows of shafts, both in the
inner court and on the Fagade, which carry
the main walls ; J, c are solid walls variously
strengthened with pilasters. A, B, C are the
three stories of the interior of the palace.
The reader sees that it is impossible for
any plan to be more simple, and that if the inner floors and
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 285
walls of the stories A, B were removed, there -rouM be left
merely the form of a basilica, — two high waifs, carried on
ranges of shafts, and roofed by a low gable.
The stories A, B are entirely modernized, and divided into
confused ranges of small apartments, among which what ves-
tiges remain of ancient masonry are entirely undecipherable,
except by investigations such as I have had neither the time
nor, as in most cases they would involve the removal of modern
plastering, the opportunity, to make. With the subdivisions
of this story, therefore, I shall not trouble the reader; but
those of the great upper story, -C, are highly important.
§ vrr. In the bird's-eye view above, fig. XXXVII., it will
be noticed that the two windows on the right are lower than the
other four of the fagade. In this arrangement there is one of
the most remarkable instances I know of the daring sacrifice
of symmetry to convenience, which was noticed in Chap. VII.
as one of the chief noblenesses of the Gothic schools.
The part of the palace in which the two lower windows
occur, we shall find, was first built, and arranged in four stories
in order to obtain the necessary number of apartments. Owing
to circumstances, of which we shall presently give an account,
it became necessary, in the beginning of the fourteenth cen-
tury, to provide another large and "htagnificent chamber for
the meeting of the senate. That chamber was added at the
side of the older building ; but, as only one room was wanted,
there was no need to divide the added portion into two stories.
The entire height was given to the single chamber, being
indeed not too great for just harmony with its enormous
length and breadth. And then came the question how to
place the windows, whether on a line with the two others, or
above them.
The ceiling of the new room was to be adorned by the
paintings of the best masters in Venice, and it became of
great importance to raise the light near that gorgeous roof,
as well as to keep the tone of illumination in the Council
Chamber serene ; and therefore to introduce light rather in
simple masses than in many broken streams. A modern
286 SECOND PERIOD.
architect, terrified at the idea of violating external symmetry,
would have sacrificed both the pictures and the peace of the
council. He would have placed the larger windows at the
same level with the other two, and have introduced above
them smaller windows, like those of the upper story in the
older building, as if that upper story had been continued
along the facade. But the old Venetian thought of the honor
of the paintings, and the comfort of the senate, before his own
reputation. He unhesitatingly raised the large windows to
their proper position with reference to the interior of the
chamber, and suffered the external appearance to take care of
itself. And I believe the whole pile rather gains than loses in
effect by the variation thus obtained in the spaces of waU above
and below the windows.
§ vm. On the party wall, between the second and third
windows, which faces the eastern extremity of the Great
Council Chamber, is painted the Paradise of Tintoret; and
this wall will therefore be hereafter called the " Wall of the
Paradise."
In nearly the centre of the Sea Facade, and between the
first and second windows of the Great Council Chamber, is a
large window to the ground, opening on a balcony, which is
one of the chief ornaments of the palace, and will be called
in future the " Sea Balcony."
The fayade which looks on the Piazetta is very nearly like
this to the Sea, but the greater part of it was built in the
fifteenth century, when people had become studious of their
symmetries. Its side windows are all on the same level.
Two light the west end ,of the Great Council Chamber, one
lights a small room anciently called the Quarantia Civil
Nuova ; the other three, and the central one, with a balcony
like that to the Sea, light another large chamber, called Sala
del Scrutinio, or "Hall of Enquiry," which extends to the
extremity of the palace above the Porta della Carta.
§ ix. The reader is now well enough acquainted with the
topography of the existing building, to be able to follow the
accounts of its history.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 287
We have seen above, that there were three principal styles
of Venetian architecture; Byzantine, Gothic, and Renais-
sance.
The Ducal Palace, which was the great work of Venice,
was built successively in the three styles. There was a Byzan-
tine Ducal Palace, a Gothic Ducal Palace, and a Renaissance
Ducal Palace. The second superseded the first totally ; a few
stones of it (if indeed so much) are all that is left. But the
third superseded the second in part only, and the existing
building is formed by the union of the two.
We shall review the history of each in succession.*
1st. The BYZANTINE PALACE.
In the year of the death of Charlemagne, 813,f the Vene-
tians determined to make the island of Rialto the seat of the
government and capital of their state. Their Doge, Angelo
or Agnello Participazio, instantly took vigorous means for the
enlargement of the small group of buildings which were to be
the nucleus of the future Venice. He appointed persons to
superintend the raising of the banks of sand, so as to form
more secure foundations, and to build wooden bridges over
the canals. For the offices of religion, he built the Church
of St. Mark ; and on, or near, the spot where the Ducal Palace
* The reader will find it convenient to note the following editions of the
printed books which have been principally consulted in the following inquiry.
The numbers of the manuscripts referred to in the Marcian Library are
given with the quotations.
Sansovino. Venetia Descritta. 4to, Venice, 1663.
Sansovino. Lettera intorno al Palazzo Ducale. 8vo, Venice, 1829.
Temanza. Antica Pianta di Venezia, with text. Venice, 1780.
Cadorin. Pareri di XV. Architetti. 8vo, Venice, 1838.
Filiasi. Memorie storiche. 8vo, Padua, 1811.
Bettio. Lettera discorsiva del Palazzo Ducale. 8vo, Venice, 1837.
Selvatico. Architettura di Venezia. 8vo, Venice, 1847.
f The year commonly given is 810, as in the Savina Chronicle (Cod.
Marcianus), p. 13. "Del 810 fece principiar el pallazzo Ducal nel luogo ditto
Bruolo in confin di 8. Moise, et fece riediflcar la isola di Eraclia. " The Sag-
ornin Chronicle gives 804; and Filiasi, vol. vi. chap. 1, corrects this date
to 813.
288 SECOND PERIOD.
now stands, lie built a palace for tlie administration of the
government. *
The history of the Ducal Palace therefore begins with the
birth of Venice, and to what remains of it, at this day, is en-
trusted the last representation of her power.
§ x. Of the exact position and form of this palace of Par-
ticipazio little is ascertained. Sansovino says that it was
"built near the Ponte della Paglia, and answeringly on the
Grand Canal," f towards San Giorgio ; that is to say, in the
place now occupied by the Sea Facade ; but this was merely
the popular report of his day. We know, however, positively,
that it was somewhere upon the site of the existing palace ;
and that it had an important front towards the Piazzetta, with
which, as we shall see hereafter, the present palace at one
period was incorporated. We know, also, that it was a pile of
some magnificence, from the account given by Sagornino of
the visit paid by the Emperor Otho the Great, to the Doge
Pietro Orseolo II. The chronicler says that the Emperor
" beheld carefully all the beauty of the palace ; " ^ and the
* " Ampli6 la citta, fornilla di casamenti, e per il culto d' Iddio e F am-
ministraztone della giuxtizia eresse la cappella di S. Marco, e il palazzo di sua
residenza." — Pareri, p. 120. Observe, that piety towards God, and justice
towards man, have been at least the nominal purposes of every act and
institution of ancient Venice. Compare also Temanza, p. 24. " Quello
che abbiamo di certo si 6 che il suddetto Agnello lo incomincid da fonda-
menti, e cost pure la cappella ducale di S. Marco."
f What I call the Sea, was called " the Grand Canal " by the Venetians,
as well as the great water street of the city ; but I prefer calling it ' ' the
Sea," in order to distinguish between that street and the broad water in
front of the Ducal Palace, which, interrupted only by the island of San
Giorgio, stretches for many mrles to the south, and for more than two to
the boundary of the Lido. It was the deeper channel, just in front of the
Ducal Palace, continuing the line of the great water street itself which the
Venetians spoke of as "the Grand Canal." The words of Sansovino are:
' ' Fu cominciato dove si vede, vicino al ponte della paglia, et rispondente
sul canal grande." Filiasi says simply: "The palace was built where it
now is. " "II palazio f u f atto dove ora pure esiste. " — Vol. iii. chap. 27.
The Savina Chronicle, already quoted, says: "In the place called the Bruolo
.(or Broglio), that is to say, on the Piazzetta."
; t¥Omni decoritate illius perlustrata. " — Sagornino, quoted by CadorU
and Temanza.
Till. THE DUCAL PALACE. 289
Venetian historians express pride in the building's being
worthy of an emperor's examination. This was after the
palace had been much injured by fire in the revolt against
Candiano IV.,* and just repaired, and richly adorned by
Orseolo himself, who is spoken of by Sagornino as having
also " adorned the chapel of the Ducal Palace " (St. Mark's)
with ornaments of marble and gold.f There can be no doubt
whatever that the palace at this period resembled and impressed
the other Byzantine edifices of the city, such as the Fondaco
de Turchi, &c., whose remains have been already described;
and that, like them, it was covered with sculpture, and richly
adorned with gold and color.
§ xi. In the year 1106, it was for the second time injured
by fire,:}: but repaired before 1116, when it received another
emperor, Henry V. (of Germany), and was again honored by
imperial praise.§ Between 1173 and the close of the century,
it seems to have been again repaired and much enlarged by
the Doge Sebastian Ziani. Sansovino says that this Doge not
only repaired it, but " enlarged it in every direction ; " || and,
* There is an interesting account of this revolt in Monaci, p. 68. Some
historians speak of the palace as having been destroyed entirely ; but, that it
did not even need important restorations, appears from Sagornino's expres-
sion, quoted by Cadorin and Temanza. Speaking of the Doge Participazio,
he says: "QuiPalatii hucusque manentis fuerit fabricator." The repara-
tions of the palace are usually attributed to the successor of Candiano,
Pietro Orseolo I. ; but the legend, under the picture of that Doge in the
Council Chamber, speaks only of his rebuilding St. Mark's, and ' ' perform-
ing many miracles. " His whole mind seems to have been occupied with
ecclesiastical affairs; and his piety was finally manifested in a way some-
what startling to the state, by his absconding with a French priest to St.
Michael's, in Gascony, and there becoming a monk. What repairs, there-
fore, were necessary to the Ducal Palace, were left to be undertaken by his
son, Orseolo II. , above named.
f " Quam non modo marmoreo, verum aureo compsit ornamento."—
Temanza, p. 25.
\ " L' anno 1106, uscito f uoco d' una casa privata, arse parte del palazzo. "
-Sansovino. Of the beneficial effect of these fires, vide Cadorin, p. 121, 123.
§ " Urbis situm, aedificiorum decorem, et regiminis sequitatem multipli-
citer commendavit." — Cronaca Dandolo, quoted by Cadorin.
| " Non solamente rinov6 il palazzo, ma lo aggrandl per ogni verso." —
Sanwvino. Zanotto quotes the Altinat Chronicle for account of these repairs
290 SECOND PEEIOD.
after this enlargement, the palace seems to have remained
untouched for a hundred years, until, in the commencement
of the fourteenth century, the works of the Gothic Palace
were begun. As, therefore, the old Byzantine building was,
at the time when those works first interfered with it, in the
form given to it by Ziani, I shall hereafter always speak of it
as the Ziani Palace; and this the rather, because the only
chronicler whose words are perfectly clear respecting the
existence of part of this palace so late as the year 1422, speaks
of it as built by Ziani. The old " palace, of which half re-
mains to this day, was built, as we now see it, by Sebastian
Ziani." *
So far, then, of the Byzantine Palace.
§ XH. 2nd. The GOTHIC PALACE. The reader, doubtless,
recollects that the important change in the Venetian govern-
ment which gave stability to the aristocratic power took place
about the year 1297, f under the Doge Pietro Gradenigo, a man
thus characterized by Sansovino : — " A prompt and prudent
man, of unconquerable determination and great eloquence,
who laid, so to speak, the foundations of the eternity of this
republic, by the admirable regulations which he introduced
into the government."
We may now, with some reason, doubt of their admirable-
ness ; but their importance, and the vigorous will and intellect
of the Doge, are not to be disputed. Venice was in the zenith
of her strength, and the heroism of her citizens was displaying
itself in every quarter of the world.:}: The acquiescence in the
secure establishment of the aristocratic power was an expres-
sion, by the people, of respect for the families which had been
chiefly instrumental in raising the commonwealth to such a
height of prosperity.
* "El palazzo che anco di mezzo sevede vecchio, per M. Sebastian Ziani
fu fatto compir, come el se vede." — Chronicle of Pietro Dolfino, Cod. Ven. p.
47. This Chronicle is spoken of by Sansovino as ' ' molto particolare e dis-
tinta." — San&mno, Venezia descritta, p. 593. — It terminates in the year 1422.
f See Vol. I. Appendix 3.
\ Vide Sansovino's enumeration of those who flourished in the reign of
Gradenigo, p. 564.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 291
The Serrar del Consiglio fixed the numbers of the Senate
within certain limits, and it conferred upon them a dignity
greater than they had ever before possessed. It was natural
that the alteration in the character of the assembly should be
attended by some change in the size, arrangement, or decora-
tion of the chamber in which they sat.
We accordingly find it recorded by Sansovino, that "in
1801 another saloon was begun on the Rio del Palazzo, under
the Doge Gradeniyo, and finished in 1309, in which year the
Grand Council first sat in it" * In the first year, therefore,
of the fourteenth century, the Gothic Ducal Palace of Yen ice
was begun ; and as the Byzantine Palace was, in its founda-
tion, coeval with that of the state, so the Gothic Palace was,
in its foundation, coeval with that of the aristocratic power.
Considered as the principal representation of the Venetian
school of architecture, the Ducal Palace is the Parthenon of
Venice, and Gradenigo its Pericles.
§ xni. Sansovino, with a caution very frequent among Ve-
netian historians, when alluding to events connected with the
Serrar del Consiglio, does not specially mention the cause for
the requirement of the new chamber ; but the Sivos Chronicle
is a little more distinct in expression. " In 1301, it was deter-
mined to build a great saloon for the assembling of the Great
Council, and the room was built which is now called the Sala
del Scrutinio." f JVW>, that is to say, at the time when the
* Sansovino, 324, 1.
f " 1301 fu presa parte di fare una sala grande per la riduzione del gran
consiglio, efu fatta quella che ora si chiama dello Scrutinio." — Cronaca Siws,
quoted by Cadorin. There is another most interesting entry in the Chronicle
of Magno, relating to this event; but the passage is so ill written, that I am
not sure if I have deciphered it correctly: — "Del 1301 fu preso de fabrichar
la sala fo ruina e fu fata (fatta) quella se adoperava a far el pregadi e fu ado-
pera per far el Gran Consegio fin 1423, che fu anni 122." This last sentence,
which is of great importance, is luckily unmistakable:— '-" The room was
used for the meetings of the Great Council until 1423, that is to say, for 122
years."— God. Yen. torn. i. p. 126. The Chronicle extends from 1253 to
1454,
292 SECOND PERIOD.
Sivos Chronicle was written ; the room has long ago been
destroyed, and its name given to another chamber on the oppo-
site side of the palace : but I wish the reader to remember the
date 1301, as marking the commencement of a great archi-
tectural epoch, in which took place the first appliance of the
energy of the aristocratic power, and of the Gothic style, to
the works of the Ducal Palace. The operations then begun
were continued, with hardly an interruption, during the whole
period of the prosperity of Yenice. We shall see the new
buildings consume, and take the place of, the Ziani Palace,
piece by piece : and when the Ziani Palace was destroyed,
they fed upon themselves ; being continued round the
square, until, in the sixteenth century, they reached the point
where they had been begun in the fourteenth, and pursued
the track they had then followed some distance beyond the
junction ; destroying or hiding their own commencement, as
the serpent, which is the type of eternity, conceals its tail in
its jaws.
§ xiv. "We cannot, therefore, see the extremity, wherein lay
the sting and force of the whole creature, — the chamber,
namely, built by the Doge Gradenigo ; but the reader must
keep that commencement and the date of it carefully in his
mind. The body of the Palace Serpent will soon become visi-
ble to us.
The Gradenigo Chamber was somewhere on the Rio Facade,
behind the present position of the Bridge of Sighs ; i.e. about
the point marked on the roof by the dotted lines in the wood-
cut ; it is not known whether low or high, but probably on a
first story. The great fa§ade of the Ziani Palace being, as
above mentioned, on the Piazzetta, this chamber was as far
back and out of the way as possible ; secrecy and security
being obviously the points first considered.
.§ xv. But the newly constituted Senate had need of other
additions to the ancient palace besides the Council Chamber.
A short, but most significant, sentence is added to Sansovino's
account of the construction of that room, " There were, near
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 29?
it" he says, " the Cfmcellaria, and the Gheba or (rabbia, after-
wards called the Little Tower." *
Gabbia means a "cage;" and there can be no question that
certain apartments were at this time added at the top of the
palace and on the Rio Facade, which were to be used as pris-
ons. Whether any: portion of the old Torresella still remains
is a doubtful question ; but the apartments at the top of the
palace, in its fourth story, were still used for prisons as late as
the beginning of the seventeenth century, f I wish the reader
especially to notice that a separate tower or range of apart-
ments was built for this purpose, in order to clear the govern-
ment of the accusations so constantly made against them, by
ignorant or partial historians, of wanton cruelty to prisoners.
The stories commonly told respecting the "piombi" of the
Ducal Palace are utterly false. Instead of being, as usually
reported, small furnaces under the leads of the palace, they
were comfortable rooms, with good flat roofs of larch, and care-
fully ventilated.:}: The new chamber, then, and the prisons,
being built, the Great Council first sat in their retired chamber
on the Bio in the year 1309.
§ xvi. Now, observe the significant progress of events.
They had no sooner thus established themselves in power than
they were disturbed by the conspiracy of the Tiepolos, in the
year 1310. In consequence of that conspiracy the Council of
Ten was created, still under the Doge Gradenigo ; who, having
finished his work and left the aristocracy of Yenice armed
with this terrible power, died in the year 1312, some say by.
poison. He was succeeded by the Doge Marino Giorgio, who
* "Viera appresso la Cancellaria, e la Gheba o Gabbia, chiamata poi
Torresella." — P. 324. A small square tower is seen above the Vine angle in
the view of Venice dated 1500, and attributed to Albert Durer. It appears
about 25 feet square, and is very probably the Torresella in question.
f Vide Bettio, Lettera, p. 23.
| Bettio, Lettera, p. 20. " Those who wrote without having seen them
described them as covered with lead ; and those who have seen them know
that, between their flat timber roofs and the sloping leaden, roof of the
palace, the interval is five metres where it is least, and nine where it la
greatest."
294 SECOND PERIOD.
reigned only one year ; and then followed the prosperous gov-
ernment of John Soranzo. There is no mention of any addi-
tions to the Ducal Palace during his reign, but he was suc-
ceeded by that Francesco Dandolo, the sculptures on whose
tomb, still existing in the cloisters of the Salute, may be com-
pared by any traveller with those of the Ducal Palace. Of
him it is recorded in the Savina Chronicle : " This Doge also
had the great gate built which is at the entry of the palace,
above which is his statue kneeling, with the gonfalon in hand,
before the feet of the Lion of St. Mark's." *
§ xvrr. It appears, then, that after the Senate had completed
their Council Chamber and the prisons, they required a nobler
door than that of the old Ziani Palace for their Magnificences
to enter by. This door is twice spoken of in the government
accounts of expenses, which are fortunately preserved, f in the
following terms : —
" 1335, June 1. We, Andrew Dandolo and Mark Loredano,
procurators of St. Mark's, have paid to Martin the stone-
cutter and his associates ^ . . . . for a stone of which
the lion is made which is put over the gate of the palace."
" 1344, November 4. We have paid thirty-five golden ducats
for making gold leaf, to gild the lion which is over the
door of the palace stairs."
The position of this door is disputed, and is of no consequence
to the reader, the door itself having long ago disappeared, and
been replaced by the Porta della Carta.
§ xvni. But before it was finished, occasion had been dis-
covered for farther improvements. The Senate found their
new Council Chamber inconveniently small, and, about thirty
years after its completion, began to consider where a larger
* " Questo Dose anche fese far la porta granda che se al intrar del Pal-
fazzo, in su la qual vi e la sua statua che sta in zenocchioni con lo confalon
in man, davanti li pie de lo Lion S. Marco. " — Savin Chronicle, Cod. Ven. p.
120.
f These documents I have not examined myself, being satisfied of the
accuracy of Cadorin, from whom I take the passages quoted.
J " Libras tres, soldos 15 grossorum." — Cadorin, 189, 1.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 295
and more magnificent one might be built. The government
was now thoroughly established, and it was probably felt that
there was some meanness in the retired position, as well as
insufficiency in the size, of the Council Chamber on the Rio.
The first definite account which I find of their proceedings,
under these circumstances, is in the Caroldo Chronicle : *
" 1340. On the 28th of December, in the preceding year,
Master Marco Erizzo, Nicolo Soranzo, and Thomas Gradenigo,
were chosen to examine where a new saloon might be built in
order to assemble therein the Greater Council On the
3rd of June, 1341, the Great Council elected two procurators
of the work of this saloon, with a salary of eighty ducats a
year."
It appears from the entry still preserved in the Archivio,
and quoted by Cadorin, that it was on the 28th of December,
1340, that the commissioners appointed to decide on this im-
portant matter gave in their report to the Grand Council, and
that the decree passed thereupon for the commencement of a
new Council Chamber on the Grand Canal, f
The room then begun 'is the one now in existence, and its
building involved the building of all that is best and most
beautiful in the present Ducal Palace, the rich arcades of the
Jower stories being all prepared for sustaining this Sala del
Gran Consiglio.
§ xix. In saying that it is the same now in existence, I do
not mean that it has undergone no alterations; as we shall
see hereafter, it has been refitted again and again, and some
portions of its walls rebuilt ; but in the place and form in
which it first stood, it still stands; and by a glance at the
position which its windows occupy, as shown in fig. XXXVII.
above, the reader will see at once that whatever can be known
respecting the design of the Sea Fa§ade, must be gleaned out
* Cod. Ven., No. CXLI. p. 365.
f Sansovino is more explicit than usual in his reference to this decree :
" For it having appeared that the place (the first Council Chamber) was not
capacious enough, the saloon on the Grand Canal was ordered.'' "Per cio
parendo che il luogo non fosse capace, fu ordinatala Sala sul Canal Grande."
—P. 834.
296 SECOND PERIOD.
of the entries which refer to the building of this Great Council
Chamber.
Cadorin quotes two of great importance, to which we shall
return in due time, made during the progress of the work in
1342 and 1344 ; then one of 1349, resolving that the works
at the Ducal Palace, which had been discontinued during the
plague, should be resumed; and finally one in 1362, which
speaks of the Great Council Chamber as having been neglected
and suffered to fall into " great desolation," and resolves that
it shall be forthwith completed.*
The interruption had not been caused by the plague only,
but by the conspiracy of Faliero, and the violent death of the
master builder, f The work was resumed in 1362, and com-
pleted within the next three years, at least so far as that
Guariento was enabled to paint his Paradise on the walls ; $ so
that the building must, at any rate, have been roofed by this
time. Its decorations and fittings, however, were long in
completion ; the paintings on the roof being only executed in
1400. § They represented the heavens covered with stars, |
this being, says Sansovino, the bearings of the Doge Steno.
Almost all ceilings and vaults were at this time in Venice cov-
ered with stars, without any reference to armorial bearings;
but Steno ckims, under his noble title of Stellifer, an impor-
tant share in completing the chamber, in an inscription upon
two square tablets, now inlaid in the walls on each side of the
great window towards the sea :
* Cadorin, 185, 2. The decree of 1342 is falsely given as of 1345 by the
Sivos Chronicle, and by Magno ; while Sanuto gives the decree to its right
year, 1342, but speaks of the Council Chamber as only begun in 1345.
f Calendario. See Appendix 1, Vol. III.
\ "II primo che vi colorisse fu Guariento, il quale 1' anno 1365 vi fece il
Paradiso in testa della sala. " — Sansomno.
§ " L' an poi 1400 vi fece il cielo compartita a quadretti d' oro, ripieni di
stelle, ch' era la insegna del Doge Steno. " — Sansomno, lib. vm.
|| "In questi tempi si messe in oro il cielo della sala del Gran Consiglio
et si fece il pergolo del finestra grande chi guarda sul canale, adornato 1'
uno e 1' altro di stelle, ch' erano 1' insegne del Doge." — Sansomno, lib. xm.
Compare also Pareri, p. 129.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 29?
" MlLLE QFADRINGENTI CURREBANT QUATTTOR ANN!
HOC OPUS ILLUSTRIS MlCHAEL DUX STELLIFER AUXTT."
And in fact it is to this Doge that we owe the beautiful
balcony of that window, though the work above it is partly
of more recent date ; and I think the tablets bearing this
important inscription have been taken out and reinserted in the
newer masonry. The labor of these final decorations occupied
a total period of sixty years. The Grand Council sat in the
finished chamber for the first time in 1423. In that year the
Gothic Ducal Palace of Venice was completed. It had taken,
to build it, the energies of the entire period wlu'ch I have
above described as the central one of her life.
§ xx. 3rd. The RENAISSANCE PALACE. I must go back a
step or two, in order to be certain that the reader understands
clearly the state of the palace in 1423. The works of addition
or renovation had now been proceeding, at intervals, during a
space of a hundred and twenty-three years. Three genera-
tions at least had been accustomed to witness the gradual
advancement of the form of the Ducal Palace into more
stately symmetry, and to contrast the works of sculpture and
painting with which it was decorated, — full of the life, knowl-
edge, and hope of the fourteenth century, — with the rude
Byzantine chiselling of the palace of the Doge Ziani. The
magnificent fabric just completed, of which ihe new Council
Chamber was the nucleus, was now habitually known in
Venice as the " Palazzo Nuovo ; " and the old Byzantine
edifice, now ruinous, and more manifest in its decay by its
contrast with the goodly stones of the building which had
been raised at its side, was of course known as the " Palazzo
Vecchio." * That fabric, however, still occupied the principal
position in Venice. The new Council Chamber had been
erected by the side of it towards the Sea ; but there was not
then the wide quay in front, the Riva dei Schiavoni, which
now renders the Sea Facade as important as that to the
* Bascggio (Pared, p. 127) is called the Proto of the New Palace. Far-
ther notes will be found in Appendix 1, Vol. III.
298 SECOND PERIOD.
Piazzetta. There was only a narrow walk between the pillars
and the water; and the old palace of Ziani still faced the
Piazzetta, and interrupted, by its decrepitude, the magnifi-
cence of the square where the nobles daily met. Every
increase of the beauty of the new palace rendered the discrep-
ancy between it and the companion building more painful;
and then began to arise in the minds of all men a vague idea
of the necessity of destroying the old palace, and completing
the front of the Piazzetta with the same splendor as the Sea
Facade. But no such sweeping measure of renovation had
been contemplated by the Senate when they first formed the
plan of their new Council Chamber. First a single additional
room, then a gateway, then a larger room ; but all considered
merely as necessary additions to the palace, not as involving
the entire reconstruction of the ancient edifice. The ex-
haustion of the treasury, and the shadows upon the political
horizon, rendered it more than imprudent to incur the vast
additional expense which such a project involved ; and the
Senate, fearful of itself, and desirous to guard against the
weakness of its own enthusiasm, passed a decree, like the
effort of a man fearful of some strong temptation to keep his
thoughts averted from the point of danger. It was a decree,
not merely that the old palace should not be rebuilt, but that
no one should propose rebuilding it. The feeling of the
desirableness of* doing so was too strong to permit fair discus-
sion, and the Senate knew that to bring forward such a motion
was to carry it.
§ xxi. The decree, thus passed in order to guard against
Jheir own weakness, forbade any one to speak of rebuilding
the old palace under the penalty of a thousand ducats. But
they had rated their own enthusiasm too low: there was a
man among them whom the loss of a thousand ducats could
not deter from proposing what he believed to be for the good
of the state.
Some excuse was given him for bringing forward the mo-
tion, by a fire which occurred in 1419, and which injured both
^the church of St. Mark's, and part of the old palace fronting
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 299
the Piazzetta. What followed, I shall relate in the words of
Sanuto.*
§ xxii. " Therefore they set themselves with all diligence
and care to repair and adorn sumptuously, first God's house ;
but in the Prince's house things went on more slowly, for it
did not please the Doge f to restore it in the form in which it
was before; and they could not rebuild it altogether in a
better manner, so great was the parsimony of these old
fathers ; because it was forbidden by laws, which condemned
in a penalty of a thousand ducats any one who should propose
to throw down the old palace, and to rebuild it more richly
and with greater expense. But the Doge, who was magnani-
mous, and who desired above all things what was honorable
to the city, had the thousand ducats carried into the Senate
Chamber, and then proposed that the palace should be rebuilt ;
saying : that, ' since the late fire had ruined in great part the
Ducal habitation (not only his own private palace, but all the
places used for public business) this occasion was to be taken
for an admonishment sent from God, that they ought to
rebuild the palace more nobly, and in a way more befitting the
greatness to which, by God's grace, their dominions had
reached ; and that his motive in proposing this was neither
ambition, nor selfish interest : that, as for ambition, they
might have seen in the whole course of his life, through so
many years, that he had never done anything for ambition,
either in the city, or in foreign business ; but in all his actions
had kept justice first in his .thoughts, and then the advantage
of the state, and the honor of th^ Venetian name : and that,
as far as regarded his private interest, if it had not been for
this accident of the fire, he would never have thought of
^changing anything in the palace into either a more sumptuous
or a more honorable form ; and that during the many years
in which he had lived in it, he had never endeavored to make
any change, but had always been content with it, as his prede-
cessors had left it ; and that he knew well that, if they took
* Cronaca Banudo, No. cxxv. iu the Marcian Library, p. 568.
f Tomaso Mocenigo.
300 SECOND PERIOD.
in hand to build it as he exhorted and besought them, being
now very old, and broken down with many toils, God would
call him to another life before the walls were raised a pace
from the ground. And that therefore they might perceive
that he did not advise them to raise this building for his own
convenience, but only for the honor of the city and its Duke-
dom ; and that the good of it would never be felt by him, but
by his successors.' Then he said, that 'in order, as he had
always done, to observe the laws, ... he had brought
with him the thousand ducats which had been appointed as
the penalty for proposing such a measure, so that he might
prove openly to all men that it was not his own advantage that
he sought, but the dignity of the state.' " There was no one
(Sanuto goes on to tell us) who ventured, or desired, to oppose
the wishes of the Doge ; and the thousand ducats were unani-
mously devoted to the expenses of the work. " And they set
themselves with much diligence to the work ; and the palace
was begun in the form and manner in which it is at present
seen ; but, as Mocenigo had prophesied, not long after, he
ended his life, and not only did not see the work brought to a
close, but hardly even begun."
§ xxin. There are one or two expressions in the above ex-
tracts which, if they stood alone, might lead the reader to sup-
pose that the whole palace had been thrown down and rebuilt.
We must however remember, that, at this time, the new Coun-
cil Chamber, which had been one hundred years in building,
was actually unfinished, the council had not yet sat in it ; and
it was just as likely that the Doge should then propose to de-
stroy and rebuild it, as in this year, 1853, it is that any one
should propose in our House of Commons to throw down the
new Houses of Parliament, under the title of the " old palace,"
and rebuild them.
§ xxiv. The manner in which Sanuto expresses himself will
at once be seen to be perfectly natural, when it is remembered
that although we now speak of the whole building as the
" Ducal Palace," it consisted, in the minds of the old Vene-
tians, of four distinct buildings. There were in it the palace,
VIIL THE DUCAL PALACE. 301
the state prisons, the senate-house, and the offices of public
business ; in other words, it was Buckingham Palace, the
Tower of olden days, the Houses of Parliament, and Downing
Street, all in one ; and any of these four portions might be
spoken of, without involving an allusion to any other. "II
Palazzo" was the Ducal residence, which, with most of the
public offices, Mocenigo did propose to pull down and rebuild,
and which was actually pulled down and rebuilt. But the
new Council Chamber, of which the whole fagade to the Sea
consisted, never entered into either his or Sanuto's mind for
an instant, as necessarily connected with the Ducal residence.
I said that the new Council Chamber, at the time when
Mocenigo brought forward his measure, had never yet been
:used. It was in the year 1422* that the decree passed to re-
build the palace : Mocenigo died in the following year,f and
Francesco Foscari was elected in his room. The Great Coun-
cil Chamber was used for the first time on the day when
Foscari entered the Senate as Doge, — the 3rd of April, 1423,
according to the Caroldo Chronicle ; \ the 23rd, which is prob-
ably correct, by an anonymous MS., No. 60, in the Correr
Museum ; § — and, the following year, on the 27th of March,
the first hammer was lifted up against the old palace of Ziani. |
§ xxv. That hammer stroke was the first act of the period
properly called the "Renaissance." It was the knell of the
architecture of Venice, — and of Venice herself.
* Vide notes in Appendi
f On the 4th of April, 1423, according to the copy of the Zancarol Chron-
icle in the Marcian Library, but previously, according to the Caroldo
Chronicle, which makes Foscari enter the Senate as Doge on the 3rd of
April.
\ " Nella quale (the Sala del Gran Consiglio) non si fece Gran Consiglio
salvo nell' anno 1423, alii 3 April, et fu il primo giorno che il Duce Foscari >
venisse in Gran Consiglio dopo la sua creatione. " —Copy in Marcian Library,
p. 365.
§ " E a di 23 April (1423, by the context) sequente fo fatto Gran Conseio
in la salla nuovo dovi avanti nonesta piu fatto Gran Conseio si che el primo
Gran Conseio dopo la sua (Foscari's) creation, f o fatto in la salla nuova, nel
qual conseio fu el Marchese di Mantoa," &c., p. 426.
J Compare Appendix 1, Vol. Ill
302 SECOND PERIOD.
The central epoch of her life was past ; the decay had
already begun : I dated its commencement above (Ch. I. Yol.
1.) from the death of Mocenigo. A year had not yet elapsed
since that great Doge had been called to his account: his
patriotism, always sincere, had been in this instance mistaken ;
in his zeal for the honor of future Yenice, he had forgotten
what was due to the Yenice of long ago. A thousand palaces
might be built upon her burdened islands, but none of them
could take the place, or recall the memory, of that which was
first built upon her unfrequented shore. It fell ; and, as if it had
been the talisman of her fortunes, the city never flourished again.
§ xxvi. I have no intention of following out, in their intri-
cate details, the operations which were begun under Foscari
and continued under succeeding Doges till the palace assumed
its present form, for I am not in this work concerned, except
by occasional reference, with the architecture of the fifteenth
century : but the main facts are the following. The palace of
Ziani was destroyed ; the existing facade to the Piazzetta built,
so as botji to continue and to resemble, in most particulars, the
work of the Great Council Chamber. It was carried back
from the Sea as far as the Judgment angle ; beyond which is
the Porta della Carta, begun in 1439, and finished in two years,
under the Doge Foscari ; * the interior buildings connected
with it were added by the Doge Christopher Moro (the Othello
of Shakspeare) f in 1462.
§ xxvii. By reference to the figure the reader will see that
we have now gone the round of the palace, and that the new
work of 1462 was close upon the first piece of the Gothic
palace, the new Council Chamber of 1301. Some remnants of
* "Tutte queste fatture si compirono sotto il dogadodel Foscari, nel
1441."— Pareri, p. 131.
\ This identification has been accomplished, and I think conclusively, by
my friend Mr. Rawdon Brown, who has devoted all the leisure which, dur-
ing the last twenty years, his manifold offices of kindness to almost every
English visitant of Venice have left him, in discovering and translating the
passages of the Venetian records which bear upon English history and lite-
rature. I shall have occasion to take advantage hereafter cf a portion of his
tabors, which I trust will shortly be made public.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 303
the Ziani Palace were perhaps still left between the two ex-
tremities of the Gothic Palace ; or, as is more probable, the
last stones of it may have been swept away after the fire of
1419, and replaced by new apartments for the Doge. But
whatever buildings, old or new, stood on this spot at the time
of the completion of the Porta della Carta were destroyed by
another great fire in 1479, together with so much of the palace
on the Rio that, though the saloon of Gradenigo, then known
as the Sala de' Pregadi, was not destroyed, it became necessary
to reconstruct the entire facades of the portion of the palace
behind the Bridge of Sighs, both towards the court and canal.
This work was entrusted to the best Renaissance architects of
the close of the fifteenth and opening of the sixteenth cen-
turies ; Antonio Ricci executing the Giant's staircase, and on
his absconding with a large sum of the public money, Pietro
Lombardo taking his place. The whole work must have been
completed towards the middle of the sixteenth century. The
architects of the palace, advancing round the square and led by
fire, had more than reached the point from which they had set
out ; and the work of 1560 was joined to the work of 1301 —
1340, at the point marked by the conspicuous vertical line in
Figure XXXVII. on the Rio Fagade.
§ xxvui. But the palace was not long permitted to remain .
in this finished form. Another terrific fire, commonly called
the great fire, burst out in 15 74, and destroyed the inner fit-
tings and all the precious pictures of the Great Council Cham-
ber, and of all the upper rooms on the Sea Facade, and most
of those on the Rio Fa9ade, leaving the building a mere shell, _
shaken and blasted by the flames. It was debated in the
Great Council whether the ruin should not be thrown down,
and an entirely new palace built in its stead. The opinions of
all the leading architects of Venice were taken, respecting the
safety of the walls, or the possibility of repairing them as they
stood. These opinions, given in writing, have been preserved,
and published by the Abbe Cadorin, in the work already so
often referred to ; and they form one of the most important
series of documents connected with the Ducal Palace.
304 SECOND PERIOD.
I cannot help feeling some childish pleasure in the acciden-
tal resemblance to my own name in that of the architect whose
opinion was first given in favor of the ancient fabric, Giovanni
Rusconi. Others, especially Palladio, wanted to pull down
the old palace, and execute designs of their own ; but the
best architects in Venice, and to his immortal honor, chiefly
Francesco Sansovino, energetically pleaded for the Gothic pile,
and prevailed. It was successfully repaired, and Tintoret
painted his noblest picture on the wall from which the Para-
dise of Guariento had withered before the flames.
I § xxix. The repairs necessarily undertaken at this time
were however extensive, and interfere in many directions with
the earlier work of the palace : still the only serious alteration
in its form was the transposition of the prisons, formerly at the
top of the palace, to the other side of the Rio del Palazzo ;
and the building of the Bridge of Sighs, to connect them with
the palace, by Antonio da Ponte. The completion of this
work brought the whole edifice into its present form ; with the
exception of alterations in doors, partitions, and staircases
among the inner apartments, not worth noticing, and such
barbarisms and defacements as have been suffered within the
last fifty years, by, I suppose, nearly every building of import-
ance in Italy.
§ xxx. Now, therefore, we are liberty to examine some of
the details of the Ducal Palace, without any doubt about their
dates. I shall not, however, give any elaborate illustrations of
them here, because I could not do them justice on the scale of
the page of this volume, or by means of line engraving. I be-
lieve a new era is opening to us in the art of illustration,* and
that I shall be able to give large figures of the details of the
Ducal Palace at a price which will enable every person who is
interested in the subject to possess them ; so that the cost and
labor of multiplying illustrations here would be altogether
wasted. I shall therefore direct the reader's attention only to
euch points of interest as can be explained in the text.
* See the last chapter of the third volume.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 305
§ xxxi. First, then, looking back to the woodcut at the be-
ginning of this chapter, the reader will observe that, as the
Luilding was very nearly square on the ground plan, a peculiar
prominence and importance were given to its angles, whicli
rendered it necessary that they should be enriched and soft-
ened by sculpture. I do not suppose that the fitness of this
arrangement will be questioned ; but if the reader will take
the pains to glance over any series of engravings of church
towers or other four-square buildings in which great refine-
ment of form has been attained, he will at once observe how
their effect depends on some modification of the sharpness of
the angle, either by groups of buttresses, or by turrets and
niches rich in sculpture. It is to be noted also that "this prin-
ciple of breaking the angle is peculiarly Gothic, arising partly
out of the necessity of strengthening the flanks of enormous
buildings, where composed of imperfect materials, by but-
tresses or pinnacles ; partly out of the conditions of Gothic
warfare, which generally required a tower at the angle ; partly
out of the natural dislike of the meagreness of effect in build-
ings whicli admitted large surfaces of wall, if the angle were
entirely unrelieved. The Ducal Palace, in its acknowledg-
ment of this principle, makes a more definite concession to the
Gothic spirit than any of the previous architecture of Venice.
No angle, up to the time of its erection, had been otherwise
decorated than by a narrow fluted pilaster of red marble, and
the sculpture was reserved always, as in Greek and Roman
work, for the plane surfaces of the building, with, as far as I
recollect, two exceptions only, both in St. Mark's ; namely, the
bold and grotesque gargoyle on its north-west angle, and the
angels which project from the four inner angles under the
main cupola ; both of these arrangements being plainly made
under Lombardic influence. And if any other instances oc-
cur, which I may have at present forgotten, I am very sure the
Northern influence will always be distinctly traceable in them.
§ xxxn. The Ducal Palace, however, accepts the principle
in its completeness, and throws the main decoration upon its
angles. The central window, which looks rich and important
306 SECOND PERIOD.
in the woodcut, was "entirely restored in the Renaissance time,
as we have seen, under the Doge Steno ; so that we have no
traces of its early treatment ; and the principal interest of the
older palace is concentrated in the angle sculpture, which is
arranged in the following manner. The pillars of the two
bearing arcades are much enlarged in thickness at the angles,
and their capitals increased in depth, breadth, and fulness of
subject ; above each capital, on the angle of the wall, a sculp-
tural subject is introduced, consisting, in the great lower
arcade, of two or more figures of the size of life; in the
upper arcade, of a single angel holding a scroll : above these
angels rise the twisted pillars with their crowning niches,
already noticed in the account of parapets in the seventh
chapter; thus forming an unbroken line of decoration from
the ground to the top of the angle.
§ xxxin. It was before noticed that one of the corners of
the palace joins the irregular outer buildings connected with
St. Mark's, and is not generally seen. There remain, there-
fore, to be decorated, only the three angles, above distinguished
as the Vine angle, the Fig-tree angle, and the Judgment angle ;
and at these we have, according to the arrangement just ex-
plained,—
First, Three great bearing capitals (lower arcade).
Secondly, Three figure subjects of sculpture above them
(lower arcade).
Thirdly, Three smaller bearing capitals (upper arcade).
Fourthly, Three angels above them (upper arcade).
Fifthly, Three spiral shafts with niches.
§ xxxiv. I shall describe the bearing capitals hereafter, in
their order, with the others of the arcade; for the first point
to which the reader's attention ought to be directed is the
choice of subject in the great figure sculptures above them.
These, observe, are the very corner stones of the edifice, and
in them we may expect to find the most important evidences
of the feeling, as well as of the skill, of the builder. If he
has anything to say to us of the purpose with which he built
the palace, it is sure to be said here ; if there was any lessor
VIII. THE DUCAI/PALACE. 307
which he wished principally to teach to those for whom he
built, here it is sure to be inculcated ; if there was any senti-
ment which they themselves desired to have expressed in the
principal edifice of their city, this is the place in .which we
may be secure of finding it legibly inscribed.
§ xxxv. Now the first two angles, of the Vine and Fig-
tree, belong to the old, or true Gothic, Palace ; the third
angle belongs to the Renaissance imitation of it : therefore, at
the first two angles, it is the Gothic spirit which is going to
speak to us ; and, at the third, the Renaissance spirit.
The reader remembers, I trust, that the most characteristic
sentiment cf all that we traced in the working of the Gothic
heart, was the frank confession of its own weakness ; and I
must anticipate, for a moment, the results of our inquiry in
subsequent chapters, so far as to state that the principal ele-
ment in the Renaissance spirit, is its firm confidence in its own
wisdom.
Hear, then, the two spirits speak for themselves.
The first main sculpture of the Gothic Palace is on what I
have called the angle of the Fig-tree :
Its subject is the FALL OF MAN.
The second sculpture is on the angle of the Vine :
Its subject is the DRUNKENNESS OF NOAII.
The Renaissance sculpture is on the Judgment angle :
Its subject is the JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.
It is impossible to overstate, or to regard with too much
admiration, the significance of this single fact. It is as if the
palace had been built at various epochs, and preserved unin-
jured to this day, for the sole purpose of teaching us the dif-
ference in the temper of the two schools.
§ xxxvi. I have called the sculpture on the Fig-tree angle
the principal one ; because it is at the central bend of the
palace, where it turns to the Piazzetta (the facade upon the
Piazzetta being, as we saw above, the more important one in
ancient times). The great capita^ which sustains this .Fig-tree
;iri!;le, is also by far more elaborate than the head of the
pilaster under the Vine angle, marking the preeminence of the
308 -SECOND PERIOD.
former in the architect's mind. It is impossible to say which
was first executed, but that of the Fig-tree angle is somewhat
rougher in execution, and more stiff in the design of the
figures, so that I rather suppose it to have been the earliest
completed.
§ xxxvn. In both the subjects, of the Fall and the Dmnk-
enness, the tree, which forms the chiefly decorative portion
of the 8culpture,; — fig in the one case, vine in the other, — was
a necessary adjunct. Its trunk, in both sculptures, forms the
true outer angle of the palace ; boldly cut separate from the
stonework behind, and branching out above the figures so as
to enwrap each side of the angle, for several feet, with its
deep foliage. Nothing can be more masterly or superb than
the sweep of this foliage on the Fig-tree angle ; the broad
leaves lapping round the budding fruit, and sheltering from
sight, beneath their shadows, birds of the most graceful fprm
and delicate plumage. The branches are, however, so strong,
and the masses of stone hewn into leafage so large, that, not-
withstanding the depth of the undercutting, the work remains
nearly uninjured ; not so at the Vine angle, where the natural
delicacy of the vine-leaf and tendril having tempted the
sculptor to greater effort, he has passed the proper limits of
his art, and cut the upper stems so delicately that half of them
- have been broken away by the casualties to which the situ-
ation of the sculpture necessarily exposes it. What remains
is, however, so interesting in its extreme refinement, that I
have chosen it for the subject of the opposite illustration rather
than the nobler masses of the fig-tree, which ought to be ren-
dered on a larger scale. ' Although half of the beauty of the
composition is destroyed by the breaking away of its central
masses, there is still enough in the distribution of the variously
bending leaves, and in the placing of the birds on the lighter
branches, to prove to us the power of the designer. I have
already referred to this Plate as a remarkable instance of the
Gothic Naturalism ; and, indeed, it is almost impossible for the
copying of nature to be carried farther than in the fibres of
the marble branches, and the careful finishing of the tendrils :
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 309
note especially the peculiar expression of the knotty joints of
the vine in the light branch which rises highest. Yet only
half the finish of the work can be seen in the Plate : for, in
several cases, the sculptor has shown the under sides of the
leaves turned boldly to the light, and has literally carved every
rib and vein upon them, in relief • not merely the main ribs
which sustain the lobes of the leaf, and actually project in
nature, but the irregular and sinuous veins which chequer the
membranous tissues between them, and which the sculptor has
represented conventionally as relieved like the others, in order
to give the vine leaf its peculiar tessellated effect upon the
eye.
§ xxxviri. As must always be the case in early sculpture,
the figures are much inferior to the leafage ; yet so skilful in
many respects, that it was a long time before I could persuade
myself that they had indeed been wrought in the first half of
the fourteenth century. Fortunately, the date is inscribed
upon a monument in the Church of San Simeon Grande,
bearing a recumbent statue of the saint, of far finer work-
manship, in every respect, than those figures of the Ducal
Palace, yet so like them, that I think there can be no question
that the head of Noah was wrought by the sculptor of the
palace in emulation of that of the statue of St. Simeon. In
this latter sculpture, the face is represented in death; the
mouth partly open, the lips thin and sharp, the teeth carefully
sculptured beneath ; the face full of quietness and majesty,
though very ghastly ; the hair and beard flowing in luxuriant
wreaths, disposed with the most masterly freedom, yet se-
verity, of design, far down upon the shoulders; the hands
crossed upon the body, carefully studied, and the veins and
sinews perfectly and easily expressed, yet without any attempt
at extreme finish or display of technical skill. This monu-
ment bears date 1317,* and its sculptor was justly proud of it ;
thus recording his name :
* " IN XM— NOIE AMEN ANNLNCARNATIONIS MCCCXVII. INE8ETBR. " " In
the mime of Christ, Amen, in the year of the incarnation, 1317, in the
month of September, " &c.
310 SECOXD PERIOD.
" CELAVIT MARCUS OPUS HOC INSIGNE ROMANIS,
LAUDIBUS NON P ARGUS EST SUA UIGNA MANUS."
§ xxxix. The head of the Xoah on the Ducal Palace, evi-
dently worked in emulation of this statue, has the same pro-
fusion of flowing hair and beard, but wrought in smaller and
harder curls ; and the veins on the arms and breast are more
sharply drawn, the sculptor being evidently more practised in
keen and fine lines of vegetation than in those of the figure ;
so that, which is most remarkable in a workman of this early
period, he has failed in telling his story plainly, regret and
wonder being so equally marked on the features of all the
three brothers that it is impossible to say which is intended
for Ham. Two of the heads of the brothers are seen in the
Plate ; the third figure is not with the rest of the group, but
set at a distance of about twelve feet, on the other side of the
arch which springs from the angle capital.
§ XL. It may be observed, as a farther evidence of the date
of the group, that, in the figures of all the three youths, the
feet are protected simply by a bandage arranged in crossed
folds round the ankle and lower part of the limb ; a feature
of dress which will be found in nearly every piece of figure
sculpture in Venice, from the year 1300 to 1380, and of which
the traveller may see an example within three hundred yardo
of tliis very group, in the bas-reliefs on the tomb of the Doge
Andrea Dandolo (in St. Mark's), who died in 1354:.
§ XLI. The figures of Adam and Eve, sculptured on each
side of the Fig-tree angle, are more stiff than those of Noah
and his sons, but are better fitted for their architectural ser-
vice ; and the trunk of the tree, with the angular body of the
serpent writhed around it, is more nobly treated as a terminal
group of lines than that of the vine.
The Renaissance sculptor of the figures of the Judgment
of Solomon has very nearly copied the fig-tree from this
angle, placing its trunk between the executioner and the
mother, who leans forward to stay his hand. But, though the
whole group is much more free in design than those of the
\
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 311
earlier palace, and in many ways excellent m itself, so that it
always strikes the eye of a careless observer more than the
others, it is of immeasurably inferior spirit in the workman-
ship ; the leaves of the tree, though far more studiously varied
in flow than those of the fig-tree from which they are partially
copied, have none of its truth to nature ; they are ill set on
the stems, bluntly defined on the edges, and their curves are
not those of growing leaves, but of wrinkled drapery.
§ XLII. Above these three sculptures are set, in the upper
arcade, the statues of the archangels Raphael, Michael, and
Gabriel : their positions will be understood by reference to
the lowest figure in Plate XVII., where that of Raphael
above the Vine angle is seen on the right. A diminutive
figure of Tobit follows at his feet, and he bears in his hand a
scroll with this inscription :
EFICE Q
SOFRE
TUR AFA
EL REYE
RENDE_
QUIETTJ
i.e. Effice (quseso ?) f return, Raphael reverende, quietum.* I
could not decipher the inscription on the scroll borne by the
angel Michael ; and the figure of Gabriel, which is by much
the most beautiful feature of the Renaissance portion of the
palace, has only in its hand the Annunciation lily.
§ XLIII. Such are the subjects of the main sculptures deco-
rating the angles of the palace; notable, observe, for their
simple expression of two feelings, the consciousness of human
frailty, and the dependence upon Divine guidance and pro-
* " Oh, venerable Raphael, make them the gulf calm, we beseech thee."
The peculiar office of the angel Raphael is, in general, according to tradi-
tion, the restraining the harmful influences of evil spirits. Sir Charles East-
lake told me, that sometimes in this office he is represented bearing the gall
of the fish caught by Tobk ; and reminded me of the peculiar superstitions
Of the Venetians respecting the raising of storms by fiends, as embodied in
the well-known tale of the Fisherman and St. Mark's ring.
312 SECOND PERIOD.
tection: this being, of course, the general purpose of the
introduction of the figures of the angels ; and, I imagine,
intended to be more particularly conveyed by the manner in
which the small figure of Tobit follows the steps of Raphael,
just touching the hem of his garment. We have next to
examine the course of divinity and of natural history embo-
died by the old sculpture in the great series of capitals which
support the lower arcade of the palace ; and which, being at
a height of little more than eight feet above the eye, might
be read, like the pages of a book, by those (the noblest men
in Venice) who habitually wralked beneath the shadow of this
great arcade at the time of their first meeting each other for
morning converse.
§ XLIV. The principal sculptures of the capitals consist of
personifications of the Yirtues and Vices, the favorite subjects
of decorative art, at this period, in all the cities of Italy ; and
there is so much that is significant in the various modes of
their distinction and general representation, more especially
with reference to their occurrence as expressions of praise to
the dead in sepulchral architecture, hereafter to be examined,
that I believe the reader may both happily and profitably rest
for a little while beneath the first vault of the arcade, to
review the manner in which these symbols of the virtues were
first invented by the Christian imagination, and the evidence
they generally furnish of the state of religious feeling in those
by whom they were recognised.
§ XLV. In the early ages of Christianity, there was little
care taken to analyze character. One momentous question
was heard over the whole world, — Dost thou believe in the
Lord with all thine heart ? There was but one division among
men, — the great unatoneable division between the disciple and
adversary. The love of Christ was all, and in all ; and in pro-
portion to the nearness of their memory of His person and
teaching, men understood the infinity of the requirements of
the moral law, and the manner in which it alone could be
fulfilled. The early Christians felt that virtue, like sin, was
subtle universal thing, entering into every aot and thought
THE DUCAL PALACE. 313
appearing outwardly in ten thousand diverse ways, diverse
according to the separate framework of every heart in which
it dwelt ; but one and the same always in its proceeding from
the love of God, as sin is one and the same in proceeding from
hatred of God. And in their pure, early, and practical piety,
they saw there was no need for codes of morality, or systems
of metaphysics. Their virtue comprehended everything, en-
tered into everything ; it was too vast and too spiritual to be
defined ; but there was no need of its definition. For through
faith, working by love, they knew that all human excellence
would be developed in due order ; but that, without faith,
neither reason could define, nor effort reach, the lowest phase
of Christian virtue. And therefore, when any of the Apostles
have occasion to describe or enumerate any forms of vice or
virtue by name, there is no attempt at system in their words.
They use them hurriedly and energetically, heaping the
thoughts one upon another, in order as far as possible to fill
the reader's mind with a sense of the infinity both of crime
and of righteousness. Hear St. Paul describe sin : " Being
filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covet-
ousness, maliciousness ; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit,
malignity ; whisperers, backbiters, haters of God, despiteful,
proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents,
without understanding, covenant breakers, without natural
affection, implacable, unmerciful." There is evidently here
an intense feeling of the universality of sin ; and in order to
express it, the Apostle hurries his words confusedly together,
little caring about their order, as knowing all the vices to be
indissolubly connected one with another. It would be utterly
vain to endeavor to arrange his expressions as if they had
been intended for the ground of any system, or to give any
philosophical definition of the vices.* So also hear him speak -
* In the original, the succession of words is evidently suggested partly
by similarity of sound ; and the sentence is made weighty by an alliteration
which is quite lost in our translation ; but the very allowance of influence
tn these minor considerations is a proof how little any metaphysical order
or system was considered necessary in the statement.
314 SECOND PERIOD.
ing of virtue : " Rejoice in the Lord. Let your moderation
be known unto all men. Be careful for nothing, but in
everything let your requests be made known unto God ; and
whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just,
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue,
and if there be any praise, think on these things." Ob-
serve, he gives up all attempt at definition ; he leaves the
definition to every man's heart, though he writes so as to mark
the overflowing fulness of his own vision of virtue. And so
it is in all writings of the Apostles ; their manner of exhorta-
tion, and the kind of conduct they press, vary according to the
persons they address, and the feeling of the moment at which
they write, and never show any attempt at logical precision.
And, although the words of their Master are not thus irregu-
larly uttered, but are weighed like fine gold, yet, even in His
teaching, there is no detailed or organized system of morality ;
but the command only of that faith and love which were to
embrace the whole being of man : " On these two command-
ments hang all the law and the prophets." Here and there an
incidental warning against this or that more dangerous form of
vice or error, " Take heed and beware of covetousness," " Be-
ware of the leaven of the Pharisees ;" here and there a plain
example of the meaning of Christian love, as in the parables
of the Samaritan and the Prodigal, and His own perpetual
example : these were the elements of Christ's constant teach-
ing f for the Beatitudes, which are the only approximation to
anything like a systematic statement, belong to different con-
ditions and characters f. of individual men, not to abstract
virtues. And all early Christians taught in the same manner.
They never cared to expound the nature of this or that virtue ;
for they knew that the believer who had Christ, had all. Did
he need fortitude ? Christ was his rock : Equity ? Christ was
his righteousness: Holiness? Christ was his sanctification :
Liberty ? Christ was his redemption : Temperance ? Christ
was his ruler: Wisdom ? Christ was his light : Tnithf ulness \
Christ was the truth : Charity ? Christ was love.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 315
§ xi. vi. Now, exactly in proportion as the Christian religion
became less vital, and as the various corruptions which time
and Satan brought into it were able to manifest themselves,
the person and offices of Christ were less dwelt upon, and
the virtues of Christians more. The Life of the Believer
became in some degree separated from the Life of Christ ; and
his virtue, instead of being a stream flowing forth from the
throne of God, and descending upon the earth, began to be
regarded by him as a pyramid upon earth, which he had to
build up, step by step, that from the top of it he might reach
the Heavens. It was not possible to measure the waves of the
•water of life, but it was perfectly possible to measure the
bricks of the Tower of Babel ; and gradually, as the thoughts
of men were withdrawn from their Redeemer, and fixed upon
themselves, the virtues began to be squared, and counted, and
classified, and put into separate heaps of firsts and seconds ;
some things being virtuous cardinally, and other things vir-
tuous only north-north-west. It is very curious to put in close
juxtaposition the words of the Apostles and of some of the
writers of the fifteenth century touching sanctification. For
instance, hear first St. Paul to the Thessalonians : " The very
God of peace sanctify, you wholly; and I pray God your
whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto
the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. Faithful is he that
calleth you, who also will do it." And then the following
part of a prayer which I translate from a MS. of the fifteenth
century : " May He (the Holy Spirit) govern the five Senses
of my body ; may He cause me to embrace the Seven Works
of Mercy, and firmly to believe and observe the Twelve Arti-
cles of the Faith and the Ten Commandments of the Law, and
defend me from the Seven Mortal Sins, even to the end."
§ XLVII. I do not mean that this quaint passage is generally
characteristic of the devotion of the fifteenth century : the
very prayer out of which it is taken is in other parts exceed-
ingly beautiful :* but the passage is strikingly illustrative of
* It occurs in a prayer for the influence of the Holy Spirit, " That He
may keep my soul, and direct my way ; compose my bearing, and form my
316 SECOND PERIOD.
the tendency of the later Romish Church, more especially
in its most corrupt condition, just before the Reformation, to
throw all religion into forms and ciphers ; which tendency, as
I «/ 7
it affected Christian ethics, was confirmed by the Renaissance
enthusiasm for the works of Aristotle and Cicero, from whom
the code of the fifteenth century virtues was borrowed, and
whose authority was then infinitely more revered by all the
Doctors of the Church than that either of St. Paul or St.
Peter.
§ XLVHI. Although, however, this change in the tone of the
Christian mind was most distinctly manifested when the re-
vival of literature rendered the works of the heathen philoso-
phers the leading study of all the greatest scholars of the
period, it had been, as I said before, taking place gradually
from the earliest ages. It is, as far as I know, that root of
thoughts in holiness; may He govern my body, and protect my mind;
strengthen me in action, approve my vows, and accomplish my desires;
cause me to lead an honest and honorable life, and give me good hope,
charity and chastity, humility and patience: may He govern the Five
Senses of my body," &c. The following prayer is also very characteristic
of this period. It opens with a beautiful address to Christ upon the cross ;
then proceeds thus: "Grant to us, O Lord, we beseech thee, this day and
ever, the use of penitence, of abstinence, of humility, and chastity; and
grant to us light, judgment, understanding, and true knowledge, even to
the end." One thing I note in comparing old prayers with modern ones,
that however quaint, or however erring, they are always tenfold more con-
densed, comprehensive, and to their purpose, whatever that may be. There
is no dilution in them, no vain or monotonous phraseology, They ask for
what is desired plainly and earnestly, and never could be shortened by a
syllable. The following series of ejaculations are deep in spirituality, and
curiously to our present purpose in the philological quaintness of being
built upon prepositions : —
' Domine Jesu Christe, sancta cruce tua apud me sis, ut me defendas.
Domine Jesu Christe, pro veneranda cruce tua post me sis, ut me gubernt
Domine Jesu Christe, pro benedicta cruce tua Intra me sis, ut me reficea
Domine Jesu Christe, pro benedicta cruce tua circa me sis, ut me cor
serves.
Domine Jesu Christe, pro gloriosa cruce tua ante me sis, ut me deduces.
Domine Jesu Christe, pro laudanda cruce tua super me sis, ut benedicaa
Domine Jesu Christe, pro magnifica cruce tua in me sis, ut me ad regnunj
luum perducas, per D. N. J. C. Amen."
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 317
the Renaissance poison-tree, which, of all others, is deepest
struck; showing itself in various measures through the writ-
ings of all the Fathers, of course exactly in proportion to the
ivspi'ct which they paid to classical authors, especially to Plato,
Aristotle, and Cicero. The mode in which the pestilent study
of that literature affected them may be well illustrated by the
examination of a single passage from the works of one of the
best of them, St. Ambrose, and of the mode in which that
passage was then amplified and formalized by later writers.
£ XLIX. Plato, indeed, studied alone, would have done no
one any harm. lie is profoundly spiritual and capacious in all
his views, and embraces the small systems of Aristotle and
Cicoro, as the solar system does the Earth. He seems to me
especially remarkable for the sense of the great Christian virtue
of Holiness, or sanctification ; and for the sense of the presence
of the Deity in all things, great or small, which always runs
in a solemn undercurrent beneath his exquisite playfulness and
-irony ; while all the merely moral virtues may be found in his
writings defined in the most noble manner, as a great painter
defines his figures, without outlines. But the imperfect schol-
arship of later ages seems to have gone to Plato, only to
find in him the system of Cicero ; which indeed was very
definitely .expressed by him. For it having been quickly felt
by all men who strove, unhelped by Christian faith, to enter
at the strait gate into the paths of virtue, that there were four
characters of mind which were protective or preservative of
all that was best in man, namely, Prudence, Justice, Courage,
and Temperance,* these were afterwards, with most illogical
inaccuracy, called cardinal virtues, Prudence being evidently
no virtue, but an intellectual gift : but this inaccuracy arose
partly from the ambiguous sense of the Latin word " virtutes,"
which sometimes, in medieval language, signifies virtues,
sometimes powers (being occasionally used in the Yulgate for
* This arrangement of the cardinal virtues is said to have been first
made by Archytas. See D'Ancarville's illustration of the three figures of
Prudence, Fortitude, and Charity, in Selvatico's "Cappellina degli Scro
vegiii," Padua, 1830.
318 SECOND PERIOD.
the word " hosts," as in Psalm ciii. 21, cxlviii. 2, &c., while
" f ortitudines " and " exercitus " are used for the same word
in other places), so that Prudence might properly be styled a
power, though not properly a virtue ; and partly from the
confusion of Prudence with Heavenly Wisdom. The real
rank of these four virtues, if so they are to be called, is how-
ever properly expressed by the term "cardinal." They are
virtues of the compass, those by which all others are directed
and strengthened ; they are not the greatest virtues, but the
restraining or modifying virtues, thus Prudence restrains zeal,
Justice restrains mercy, Fortitude and Temperance guide the
entire system of the passions; and, thus understood, these
virtues properly assumed their peculiar leading or guiding
position in the system of Christian ethics. But in Pagan
ethics, they were not only guiding, but comprehensive. They
meant a great deal more on the lips of the ancients, than they
now express to the Christian mind. Cicero's Justice includes
charity, beneficence, and benignity, truth, and faith in the
sense of trustworthiness. His Fortitude includes courage,
self-command, the scorn of fortune and of all temporary felicr-
ties. His Temperance includes courtesy and modesty. So
also, in Plato, these four virtues constitute the sum of educa-
tion. I do not remember any more simple or perfect expres-
sion of the idea, than in the account given by Socrates, in the
"Alcibiades I.," of the education of the Persian kings, for
whom, in their youth, there are chosen, he says, four tutors
from among the Persian nobles ; namely, the Wisest, the most
Just, the most Temperate, and the most Brave of them.
Then each has a distinct duty: "The Wisest teaches the
young king the worship of the gods, and the duties of a
king (something more here, observe, than our ' Prudence ! ') ;
the most Just teaches him to speak all truth, and to act out
all truth, through the whole course of his life ; the most Tem-
perate teaches him to allow no pleasure to have the mastery
of him, so that he may be truly free, and indeed a king ; and
the most Brave makes him fearless of all things, showing him
that the moment he fears anything, he becomes a slave."
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 319
§ L. All this is exceedingly beautiful, so far as it reaches ;
Hit the Christian divines were grievously led astray by their
endeavors to reconcile this system with the nobler la\v of love.
At first, as in the passage I am just going to quote, from St.
Ambrose, they tried to graft the Christian system on the four
brunches of the Pagan one; but finding that the tree would
not grow, they planted the Pagan and Christian branches side
by side ; adding, to the four cardinal virtues, the three called
by the schoolmen theological, namely, Faith, Hope, and
Charity : . the one series considered as attainable by the
Heathen, but the other by the Christian only. Thus Yirgil
to Sordello :
f
" Loco e laggiu, non tristo da martiri
Ma di tenebre solo, ove i lament!
Non suonan come gvai, ma son spspiri:
Quivi sto io, con quei cue le tre sante
Virtu non si vestiro, e scnza vizio
Conobber 1' altre, e seguir, tutte quante."
" There I with those abide
Who the Three Holy Virtues put not on,
But understood the rest, and without blame
Followed them all."
CARY.
§ LI. This arrangement of the virtues was, however, pro-
ductive of infinite confusion and error: in the first place,
because Faith is classed with its own fruits, — the gift of God,
which is the root of the virtues, classed simply as one of them ;
in the second, because the words used by the ancients to
express the several virtues had always a different meaning
from the same expressions in the Bible, sometimes a more ex-
tended, sometimes a more limited one. Imagine, for instance,
the confusion which must have been introduced into the ideas
of a student who read St. Paul and Aristotle alternately ; con-
sidering that the word which the Greek writer uses for Justice,
means, with St. Paul, Righteousness. And lastly, it is impos-
sible to overrate the mischief produced in former days, as well
as in our own, by the mere habit of reading Aristotle, whose
320 SECOXD PEKIOD.
system is so false, so forced, and so confused, that the study of
it at our universities is quite enough to occasion the utter want
of accurate habits of thought which so often disgraces men
otherwis3 well-educated. In a word, Aristotle mistakes the
Prudence or Temperance which must regulate the operation of
the virtues, for the essence of the virtues themselves ; and,
striving to show that all virtues are means between two oppo-
site vices, torments his wit to discover and distinguish as many
pairs of vices as are necessary to the completion of his system,
not disdaining to employ sophistry where invention fails him.
And, indeed, the study of classical literature, in general, not
only fostered in the Christian writers the unfortunate love of
systematizing, which gradually degenerated into every species
of contemptible formulism, but it accustomed them to work
out their systems by the help of any logical quibble, or verbal
subtlety, which could be made available for their purpose, and
this not with any dishonest intention, but in a sincere desire to
arrange their ideas in systematical groups, while yet their
powers of thought were not accurate enough, nor their com-
mon sense stern enough, to detect the fallacy, or disdain the
finesse, by which these arrangements were frequently accon^
plished.
§ LII. Thus St. Ambrose, in his commentary on Luke vi.
20, is resolved to transform the four Beatitudes there described
into rewards of the four cardinal Virtues, and sets himself
thus ingeniously to the task :
" ' Blessed be ye poor.' Here you have Temperance.
' Blessed are ye that hunger now.' He who hungers, pities
those who are an-hungered ; in pitying, he gives to them, and
in giving he becomes just (largiendo fit Justus). ' Blessed are
ye that weep now, for ye shall laugh.' Here you have Pru-
dence, whose part it is to weep, so far as present things are
concerned, and to seek things wrhich are eternal. ' Blessed are
ye when men shall hate you.' Here you have Fortitude."
§ Lin. As a preparation for this profitable exercise of wit,
we have also a reconciliation of the Beatitudes as stated by
St. Matthew, with those of St. Luke, on the ground that " in,
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE.
321
those eight are these four, and in these four are those eight ;"
with sundry remarks on the mystical value of the number
eight, with which I need not trouble the reader. With St.
Ambrose, however, this puerile systematization is quite sub-
ordinate to a very forcible and truthful exposition of the real
nature of the Christian life. But the classification he employs
furnishes ground for farther subtleties to future divines ; and
in a MS. of the thirteenth century I find some expressions in
this commentary on St. Luke, and in the treatise on the duties
of bishops, amplified into a treatise on the " Steps of the Vir-
tues : by which every one who perseveres may, by a straight
path, attain to the heavenly country of the Angels." (" Liber
de Gradibus Virtutum : quibus ad patriam angelorum snpernam
itinere recto ascenditur ab omni perseverante.") These Steps
are thirty in number (one expressly for each day of the month),
and the curious mode of their association renders the list well
worth quoting : —
LIV. Primus gradus est Fides Recta.
Secundus
Tertius
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
Spes firma.
Caritas perfecta.
Patientia vera.
Humilitas sancta.
Mansuetudo.
Intelligent^.
Compunctio cordis.
Oratio.
Confessio pura.
Penitentia digna.
Abstinentia.
Timor Dei.
Virginitas.
Justicia.
Misericordia.
Elemosina.
Hospitalitas.
Honor parentum.
Silencium.
Consilium bonum.
Unerring faith.
Firm hope.
Perfect charity.
True patience.
Holy humility.
Meekness.
Understanding.
Contrition of heart.
Prayer.
Pure confession.
Fitting penance.*
Abstinence (fasting).
Fear of God.
Virginity.
Justice.
Mercy.
Almsgiving.
Hospitality.
Honoring of parents.
Silence.
Good counsel.
* Or Penitence: but I rather think this is understood only in Compunc-
tio cordis.
322 SECOND PERIOD.
22. gradus est Judicium rectum. Right judgment.
23. ,, Exemplum bonum. Good example.
24. ,, Yisitatio infirmorum. Visitation of the sick
25. „ Frequentatio sancto- Companying with
rum. saints.
26. „ Oblatio justa. Just oblations.
27. „ " Decimas Deo solvere. Paying tithes to God.
28. ,, Sapientia. Wisdom.
29. „ Voluntas bona. Goodwill.
30. „ Perseverantia. Perseverance.
§ LV. The reader will note that the general idea of Christian
virtue embodied in this list is true, exalted, and beautiful ; the
points of weakness being the confusion of duties with virtues,
and the vain endeavor to enumerate the various offices of
charity as so maijv separate virtues ; more frequently arranged
as seven distinct works of mercy. This general tendency to a
morbid accuracy of classification was associated, in later timis,
with another A^ery important element of the Renaissance mind,
the love of personification ; which appears to have reached its
greatest vigor in the course of the sixteenth century, and is
expressed to all future ages, in a consummate manner, in the
poem of Spenser. It is to be noted that personification is, in t
some sort, the reverse of symbolism, and is far less noble.
Symbolism is the setting forth of a great truth by an imperfect
and inferior sign (as, for instance, of the hope of the resurrec-
tion by the form of the phoanix); and it is almost always
employed by men in their most serious moods of faith, rarely
in recreation. Men who use symbolism forcibly are almost
always true believers in what they symbolize. But Personifica-
tion is the bestowing o^ a human or living form upon an ab-
stract idea : it is, in most cases, a mere recreation of the fancy,
and is apt to disturb the belief in the reality of the thing per-
sonified. Thus symbolism constituted the entire system of the
Mosaic dispensation : it occurs in every word of Christ's
teaching ; it attaches perpetual mystery to the last and most
solemn act of His life. But I do not recollect a single instance
of personification in any of His words. And as we watch,
thenceforward, the history of the Church, we shall find the
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 323
declension of its faith exactly marked by the abandonment of
symbolism,* and the profuse employment of personification, —
even to such an extent that the virtues came, at last, to be
confused with the saints; and we find in the later Litanies,
St. Faith, St. Hope, St. Charity, and St. Chastity, invoked im-
mediately after St. Clara and St. Bridget.
§ LVI. Nevertheless, in the hands of its early and earnest
masters, in whom fancy could not overthrow the foundations
of faith, personification is often thoroughly noble and lovely ;
the earlier conditions of it being just as much more spiritual
and vital than the later ones, as the still earlier symbolism was
more spiritual than they. Compare, for instance, Dante's
burning Charity, running and returning at the wheels of the
chariot of God, —
' ' So ruddy, that her form had scarce
Been known within a furnace of clear flame,"
with Reynolds's Charity, a nurse in a white dress, climbed
upon by three children.f And not only so, but the number
and nature of the virtues differ considerably in the statements
of different poets and painters, according ^to their own views
of religion, or to the manner of life they had it in mind to
illustrate. Giotto, for instance, arranges his system altogether
differently at Assisi, where he is setting forth the monkish
(ife, and in the Arena Chapel, where he treats of that of
mankind in general, and where, therefore, he gives only the
go-called theological and cardinal virtues; while, at Assisi,
the three principal virtues are those which are reported to
have appeared in vision to St. Francis, Chastity, Obedience,
and Poverty : Chastity being attended by Fortitude, Purity,
and Penance ; Obedience by Prudence and Humility ; Poverty
l>y Hope and Charity. The systems vary with almost every
writer, and in almost every important work of art which
embodies them, being more or less spiritual according to the
* The transformation of a symbol into a reality, observe, as in transub-
stantiation, is as much an abandonment of symbolism as the forgetfulness
of symbolic meaning altogether.
f Oil the window Of New College, Oxford.
324 SECOND PEEIOD.
power of intellect by which they were conceived. The most
noble in literature are, I suppose, those of Dante and Spenser :
and with these we may compare five of the most interesting
series in the early art of Italy; namely, those of Orcagna,
Giotto, and Simon Memmi, at Florence and Padua, and those
of St. Mark's and the Ducal Palace at Venice. Of course,
in the richest of these series, the vices are personified together
with the virtues, as in the Ducal Palace ; and by the form or
name of opposed vice, we may often ascertain, with much
greater accuracy than would otherwise be possible, the par-
ticular idea of the contrary virtue in the mind of the writer
or painter. Thus, when opposed to Prudence, or Prudentia,
on the one side, we find Folly, or Stultitia, on the other, it
shows that the virtue understood by Prudence, is not the
mere guiding or cardinal virtue, but the Heavenly Wisdom,*
opposed to that folly which "hath said in its heart, there is
no God ; " and of which it is said, " the thought of foolishness
is sin ;" and again, " Such as be foolish shall not stand in thy
sight." This folly is personified, in early painting and illumi-
nation, by a half-naked man, greedily eating an apple or other
fruit, and brandishing a club ; showing that sensuality and
violence are the two principal characteristics of Foolishness,
and lead into atheism. The figure, in early Psalters, always
forms the letter D, which commences the fifty-third Psalm,
"Dixit insipiens."
§ LVH. In reading Dante, this mode of reasoning from
contraries is a great help, for his philosophy of the vices is
the only one which admits of classification; his descriptions
of virtue, while they include the ordinary formal divisions,
are far too profound and extended to be brought under defi-
nition. Every line of the "Paradise" is full of the most
exquisite and spiritual expressions of Christian truth; and
that poem is only less read than the "Inferno" because it
requires far greater attention, and, perhaps, for its full enjoy-
ment, a holier heart.
* Uniting the three ideas expressed by the Greek philosophers under the
terms ffipovr/ei) Gocpia, and kititiTrinri; and part of the idea
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 325
§ Lvm. His system in the " Inferno" is briefly this. The
whole nether world is divided into seven circles, deep within
deep, in each of which, according to its depth, severer punish-
ment is inflicted. These seven circles, reckoning them down-
wards, are thus allotted :
1. To those who have lived virtuously, but knew not Christ
2. To Lust.
3. To Gluttony.
4. To Avarice and Extravagance.
5. To Anger and Sorrow.
6. To Heresy.
7. To Yiolence and Fraud.
This seventh circle is divided into two parts ; of which the
first, reserved for those who have been guilty of Yiolence, is
again divided into three, apportioned severally to those who
have committed, or desired to commit, violence against their
neighbors, against themselves, or against God.
The lowest hell, reserved for the punishment of Fraud, is
itself divided into ten circles, wherein are severally punished
the sins of, —
1. Betraying women.
2. Flattery.
3. Simony.
4. False prophecy.
5. Peculation.
6. Hypocrisy.
T. Theft.
8. False counsel.
9. Schism and Imposture.
10. Treachery to those who repose entire trust in the traitor.
LIX. There is, perhaps, nothing more notable in this most
interesting system than the profound truth couched under the
attachment of so terrible a penalty to sadness or sorrow. It
is true that Idleness does not elsewhere appear in the scheme,
and is evidently intended to be included in the guilt of sadness
326 SECOND PERIOD.
by the word " accidioso ;" but the main meaning of the poet is
to mark the duty of rejoicing in God, according both to St.
Paul's command, and Isaiah's promise, " Thou meetest him
that rejoiceth and worketh righteousness." * I do not know
words that might with more benefit be borne with us, and set
in our hearts momentarily against the minor regrets and rebel-
liousnesses of lif e, than these simple ones :
"Tristi furnmo
Nel aer dolce, che del sol s' allegra,
Or ci attristiam, nella belletta negra."
' ' We once were sad,
In the sweet air, made gladsome by the sun,
Now in these murky settlings are we sad."f CAKT.
The virtue usually opposed to this vice of sullenness is
Alacritas, uniting the sense of activity and cheerfulness.
Spenser has cheerfulness simply, in his description, never
enough to be loved or prajsed, of the virtues of Womanhood ;
first feminineness or womanhood in specialty ; then, —
"Next to her sate goodly Shamefastnesse,
Ne ever durst her eyes from ground upreare,
Ne ever once did looke up from her desse,*
As if some blame of evill she did feare
That in her cheekes made roses oft appeare :
And her against sweet Cherefulnesse was placed,
Whose eyes, like twinkling stars in evening cleare,
Were deckt with smyles that all sad humours chaced.
"And next to her sate sober Modestie,
Holding her hand upon her gentle hart;
And her against, sate comely Curtesie,
That unto every person knew Jier part ;
And her before was seated overthwart
Soft Silence, and submisse Obedience,
Both linckt together never to dispart. "
* Isa, Ixiv. 5.
f I can hardly think it necessary to "point out to the reader the associa
tion between sacred cheerfulness and solemn thought, or to explain any ap
pearance of contradiction between passages in which (as above in Chap. V.
I have had to oppose sacred pensiveness to unholy mirth, and those in whic
I have to oppose sacred cheerfulness to unholy sorrow.
\ "Desse," seat.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 327
§ LX. Another notable point in Dante's system is the in-
tensity of uttermost punishment given to treason, the peculiar
sin of Italy, and that to which, at this day, she attributes her
own misery with her own lips. An Italian, questioned as to
the causes of the failure of the campaign of 1848, always makes
one answer, " We were betrayed ;" and the most melancholy
feature of the present state of Italy is principally this, that she
does not see that, of all causes to which failure might be attrib-
uted, this is at once the most disgraceful, and the most hope-
less. In fact, Dante seems to me to have written almost
prophetically, for the instruction of modern Italy, and chiefly
so in the sixth canto of the " Purgatorio."
§ LXI. Hitherto we have been considering the system of the
" Inferno" only. That of the " Purgatorio" is much simpler,
it being divided into seven districts, in which the souls are
severally purified from the sins of Pride, Envy, "Wrath,
Indifference, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust; the poet thus
implying in opposition, and describing in various instances,
the seven virtues of Humility, Kindness,* Patience, Zeal,
Poverty, Abstinence, and Chastity, as adjuncts of the Christian
character, in which it may occasionally fail, while the essential
group of the three theological and four cardinal virtues are
represented as in direct attendance on the chariot of the Deity;
and all the sins of Christians are in the seventeenth canto
traced to the deficiency or aberration of Affection.
§ LXII. The system of Spenser is unfinished, and exceedingly
complicated, the same vices and virtues occurring under dif-
ferent forms in different places, in order to show their different
relations to each other. I shall not therefore give any general
sketch of it, but only refer to the particular personification of
* Usually called Charity: but this virtue in its full sense is one of the
attendant spirits by the Throne ; the Kindness here meant is Charity with a
speciiil object; or Friendship and Kindness, as opposed to Envy, which has
al \\avs, in like manner, a special obje t. Hence the love of Orestes and
Pylades is given as an instance of the virtue o'f Friendship; and the Virgin's,
"They have no wine," at Cana, of general kindness and sympathy with
Others' pleasure.
328 SECOND PERIOD.
each virtue in order to compare it with that of the Ducal
Palace.* The peculiar superiority of his system is in its
exquisite setting forth of Chastity under the figure of Brito-
mart ; not monkish chastity, but that of the purest Love. In
completeness of personification no one can approach him ; not
even in Dante do I remember anything quite so great as the
description of the Captain of the Lusts of the Flesh :
' 'As pale and wan as ashes was his looke ;
His body lean and meagre as a rake ;
And skin all withered like a dryed rooke;
Thereto as cold and drery as a snake ;
That seemed to tremble evermore, and quake:
All in a canvas thin he was bedight,
And girded with a belt of twisted brake :
Upon his head he wore an helmet light,
Made of a dead man's skull. "
He rides upon a tiger, and in his hand is a bow, bent ;
"And many arrows under his right side,
Headed with flint, and f ethers bloody dide. "
The horror and the truth of this are beyond everything that
I know, out of the pages of Inspiration. Note the heading of
the arrows with flint, because sharper and more subtle in the
edge than steel, and because steel might consume away with
rust, but flint not ; and consider in the whole description how
the wasting away of body and soul together, and the coldness
of the heart, which unholy fire has consumed into ashes, and
the loss of all power, and the kindling of all terrible impatience,
and the implanting of thorny and inextricable griefs, are set
forth by the various images, the belt of brake, the tiger steed,
and the light helmet, girding the head with death.
§ Lxm. Perhaps the most interesting series of the Virtues
expressed in Italian art are those above mentioned of Simon
*The "Faerie Queen," like Dante's "Paradise," is only half estimated,
because few persons take the pains to think out its meaning. I have put a
brief analysis of the first book in Appendix 2, Vol. III. ; which may perhaps
induce the reader to follpw out the subject for himself. No time devoted
to profane literature will be better rewarded than that spent earnestly on
Spenser.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE.
329
Memmi in the Spanish chapel at Florence, of Ambrogio di
Lorenzo in the Palazzo Publico of Pisa, of Orcagna in Or San
Michele at Florence, of Giotto at Padua and Assisi, in mosaic
on the central cupola of St. Mark's, and in sculpture on the
pillars of the Ducal Palace. The first two series are carefully
described by Lord Lindsay ; both are too complicated for
comparison with the more simple series of the Ducal Palace ;
the other four of course agree in giving first the cardinal and
evangelical virtues ; their variations in the statement of the
rest will be best understood by putting them in a parallel
arrangement.
ST. MARK'S.
ORCAGNA.
Constancy.
Perseverai
Modesty.
Chastity.
Yirginity
Patience.
Patience.
Mercy.
Abstinence.
Piety.*
Devotion.
Benignity.
Humility.
Humility.
GIOTTO.
Chastity.
DUCAL PALACE.
Constancy.
Modesty.
Chastity.
Patience.
Abstinence ?
Obedience.
Docility.
Caution.
Humility. Humility.
Obedience. Obedience.
Poverty. Honesty.
Liberality.
Alacrity.
§ LXIV. It is curious, that in none of these lists do we find
either Honesty or Industry ranked as a virtue, except in the
Venetian one, where the latter is implied in Alacritas, and
opposed not only by "Accidia" or sloth, but by a whole series
of eight sculptures on another capital, illustrative, as I believe,
of the temptations to idleness ; while various other capitals, as
we shall see presently, are devoted to the representation of the
* Inscribed, I believe, Pietas, meaning general reverence and godly fear.
330 SECOXD PERIOD.
active trades. Industry, in Northern art and Northern moral-
ity, assumes a very principal place. I have seen in French
manuscripts the virtues reduced to these seven. Charity, Chas-
tity, Patience, Abstinence, Humility, Liberality, and Industry :
and I doubt whether, if we were but to add Honesty (or Truth),
a wiser or shorter list could be made out.
§ LXV. We will now take the pillars of the Ducal Palace
in their order. It has already been mentioned (Vol. I. Chap.
I. § XLVI.) that there are, in all, thirty-six great pillars support-
ing the lower story ; and that these are to be counted from
right to left, because then the more ancient of them come first :
and that, thus arranged, the first, which is not a shaft, but a
pilaster, will be the support of the Vine angle ; the eighteenth
will be the great shaft of the Fig-tree angle ; and the thirty-
sixth, that of the Judgment angle.
§ LXVI. All their capitals, except that of the first, are octag-
onal, and are decorated by sixteen leaves, differently enriched
in every capital, but arranged in the same way ; eight of them
rising to the angles, and there forming volutes ; the eight
others set between them, on the sides, rising half-way up the
bell of the capital ; there nodding forward, and showing above
them, rising out of their luxuriance, the groups or single
figures which we have to examine.* In some instances, the
intermediate or lower leaves are reduced to eight sprays of
foliage ; and the capital is left dependent for its effect on the
bold position of the figures. In referring to the figures on
the octagonal capitals, I shall call the outer side, fronting either
the Sea or the Piazzetta, the first side ; and so count round
from left to right ; the fourth side being thus, of course, the
innermost. As, however, the first five arches were walled up
after the great fire, only three sides of their capitals are left
visible, which we may describe as the front and the eastern
and western sides of each.
* I have given one of these capitals carefully already in my folio work
and hope to give most of the others in due time. It was of no use to drai;
them here, as the scale would have been too small to allow me to show
expression of the figures.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 331
§ LXVTT. FIRST CAPITAL: i.e. of the pilaster at the Yine
angle.
In front, towards the Sea. A child holding a bird before
him, with its wings expanded, covering his breast.
On its eastern side. Children's heads among leaves.
On its western side. A child carrying in one hand a comb ;
in the other, a pair of scissors.
It appears curious, that this, the principal pilaster of the
facade, should have been decorated only by these graceful
grotesques, for I can hardly suppose them anything more.
There may be meaning in them, but I will not venture to con-
jecture any, except the very plain and practical meaning con-
veyed by the last figure to all Venetian children, which it
would be well if they would act upon. For the rest, I have
seen the comb introduced in grotesque work as early as the
thirteenth century, but generally for the purpose of ridiculing
too great care in dressing the hair, which assuredly is not its
purpose here. The children's heads are very sweet and full
of life, but the eyes sharp and small.
§ LXVIII. SECOND CAPITAL. Only three sides of the original
work are left unburied by the mass of added wall. Each side
has a bird, one web-footed, with a fish, one clawed, with a ser-
pent, which opens its jaws, and darts its tongue at the bird's
breast ; the third pluming itself, with a feather between the
mandibles of its bill. It is by far the most beautiful of the
three capitals decorated with birds.
THIRD CAPITAL. Also has three sides only left. They have
three heads, large, and very ill cut ; one female, and crowned.
FOURTH CAPITAL. Has three children. The eastern one
is defaced : the one in front holds a small bird, whose plumage
is beautifully indicated, in its right hand; and with its left
holds up half a walnut, showing the nut inside : the third
holds a fresh fig, cut through, showing the seeds.
The hair of all the three children is differently worked :
the first has luxuriant flowing hair, and a double chin ; the
second, light flowing hair falling in pointed locks on the
forehead ; the third, crisp curling hair, deep cut with drill holes.
332. SECOND PERIOD.
This capital has been copied on the Renaissance side of the
palace, only with such changes in the ideal of the children as
the workman thought expedient and natural. It is highly
interesting to compare the child of the fourteenth with the
child of the fifteenth century. The early heads are full of
youthful life, playful, humane, affectionate, beaming with sen-
sation and vivacity, but with much manliness and firmness,
also, not a little cunning, and some cruelty perhaps, beneath
all ; the features small and hard, and the eyes keen. There is
the making of rough and great men in them. But the chil-
dren of the fifteenth century are dull smooth-faced dunces,
without a single meaning line in the fatness of their stolid
cheeks; and, although, in the vulgar sense, as handsome as
the other children are ugly, capable of becoming nothing but
perfumed coxcombs.
FIFTH CAPITAL. Still three sides only left, tearing three
half-length statues of kings ; this is the first capital which bears
any inscription. In front, a king with a sword in his right
hand points to a handkerchief embroidered and fringed, with
a head on it, carved on the cavetto of the abacus. His name
is written above, "TITUS VESPASIAN IMPERATOR" (contracted
On eastern side, "TRAJANUS IMPERATOR." Crowned, a
sword in right hand, and sceptre in left.
On western, " (OCT)AVIANUS AUGUSTUS IMPERATOR." The
" OCT " is broken away. He bears a globe in his right hand,
with " MUNDUS PACIS " upon it ; a sceptre in his left, which I
think has terminated in a human figure. He has a flowing
beard, and a singularly high crown ; the face is much injured,
but has once been very noble in expression.
SIXTH CAPITAL. Has large male and female heads, ve
coarsely cut, hard, and bad.
§ LXIX. SEVENTH CAPITAL. This is the first of the serl
which is complete; the first open arch of the lower ar
being between it and the sixth. It begins the representation
of the Virtues.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 333
First side. Largitas, or Liberality : always distinguished
from the higher Charity. A male figure, with his lap full of
money, which he pours out of his hand. The coins are plain,
circular, and smooth ; there is no attempt to mark device upon
them. The inscription above is, " LAKGITAS ME ONORAT."
In the copy of this design on the twenty-fifth capital, in-
stead of showering out the gold from his open hand, the figure
holds it in a plate or salver, introduced for the sake of disguis-
ing the direct imitation. The changes thus made in the
Renaissance pillars are always injuries.
This virtue is the proper opponent of Avarice ; though it
does not occur in the systems of Orcagna or Giotto, being
included in Charity. It was a leading virtue with Aristotle
and the other ancients.
§ LXX. Second side. Constancy ; not very characteristic.
An armed man with a sword in his hand, inscribed, " CON-
6TANTIA SUM, NIL TIMENS."
This virtue is one of the forms of fortitude, and Giotto
therefore sets as the vice opponent to Fortitude, " Inconstan-
tia," represented as a woman in loose drapery, falling from a
rolling globe. The vision seen in the interpreter's house in
the Pilgrim's Progress, of the man with a very bold counte-
nance, who says to him who has the writer's ink-horn by his
side, " Set down my name," is the best personification of the
Venetian "Constantia" of which I am aware in literature.
It would be well for us all to consider whether we have yet given
the order to the man with the ink-horn, " Set down my name."
§ LXXI. Third side. Discord ; holding up her finger, but
needing the inscription above to assure us of her meaning,
"DISCORDIA SUM, DISCORDANS." In the Renaissance copy she
is a meek and nun-like person with a veil.
She is the "Ate of Spenser ; " mother of debate," thus
described in the fourth book :
" Her face most fowle and filthy was to see,
With squinted eyes contrarie wayes intended ;
And loathly mouth, unmeete a mouth to bee,
That nought but gall and venim comprehended,
334 SECOND PERIOD.
And wicked wordes that God and man offended:
Her lying tongue was in two parts divided,
And both the parts did speake, and both contended ;
And as her tongue, so was her hart discided,
That never thoght one thing, but doubly stil was guided."
Note the fine old meaning of " discided," cut in two ; it is
a great pity we have lost this powerful expression. We might
keep " determined" for the other sense of the word.
§ LXXII. Fourth side. Patience. A female figure, very
expressive and lovely, in a hood, with her right hand on her
breast, the left extended, inscribed "PATIENTIA MANET ME-
CUM."
She is one of the principal virtues in all the Christian sys-
tems: a masculine virtue in Spenser, and beautifully placed
as the Physician in the House of Holinesse. The opponent
vice, Impatience, is one of the hags who attend the Captain
of the Lusts of the Flesh ; the other being Impotence. In
like manner, in the • " Pilgrim's Progress," the opposite of
Patience is Passion ; but Spenser's thought is farther carried.
His two hags, Impatience and Impotence, as attendant upon
the evil spirit of Passion, embrace all the phenomena of human
conduct, down even to the smallest matters, according to the
adage, " More haste, worse speed."
§ Lxxm. Fifth side. Despair. A female figure thrusting
a dagger into 'her throat, and tearing her long hair, which
flows down among the leaves of the capital below her knees.
One of the finest figures of the series ; inscribed " DESPERACIO
MOS (mortis?) CRUDELIS." In the Renaissance copy she
totally devoid of expression, and appears, instead of tt
her hair, to be dividing it into long curls on each side.
This vice is the proper opposite of Hope. By Giotto si
is represented as a woman hanging herself, a fiend coming for
her soul. Spenser's vision of Despair is well known, it being
indeed currently reported that this part of the Faerie Queen
was the first which drew to it the attention of Sir Philip Sid-
ney.
§ LXXIV. Sixth side. Obedience : with her arms folded j
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 335
meek, but rude and commonplace, looking at a little dog stand-
ing on its hind legs and begging, with a collar round its neck.
Inscribed " OBEDIENTI * * ;" the rest of the sentence is much
defaced, but looks like A'OnOflKIpCjO - I suppose the note
of contraction above the final A has disappeared and that the
inscription was " Obedientiam domino exhibeo."
This virtue is, of course, a principal one in the monkish sys-
tems ; represented by Giotto at Assisi as " an angel robed in
black, placing the finger of his left hand on his mouth, and pass-
ing the yoke over the head of a Franciscan monk kneeling at
•his feet?' *
Obedience holds a less principal place in Spenser. We
have seen her above associated with the other peculiar virtues
of womanhood.
§ LXXV. Seventh side. Infidelity. A man in a turban, with
a small image in his hand, or the image of a child. Of the
inscription nothing but " INFIDELITATE * * *" and some frag-
mentary letters, " ILI, CERO," remain.
By Giotto Infidelity is most nobly symbolized as a woman
helmeted, the helmet having a broad rim which keeps the
light from her eyes. She is covered with heavy drapery,
stands infirmly as if about to fall, is bound by a cord round
her neck to an image which she carries in her hand, and has
flames bursting forth at her feet.
In Spenser, Infidelity is the Saracen knight Sans Foy, —
"Full large of limbe and every joint
He was, and cared not for God or man a point."
For the part which he sustains in the contest with Godly Fear,
or the Ked-cross knight, see Appendix 2, Yol. III.
§ LXXVI. Eighth side. Modesty ; bearing a pitcher. (In the
Renaissance copy, a vase like a coffee-pot.) Inscribed " MODESTIA
I do not find this virtue in any of the Italian series, except
that of Yenice. In Spenser she is of course one of those
* Lord Lindsay, vol. ii. p. 236.
336 SECOND PERIOD.
attendant on "Womanhood, but occurs as one of the tenants
of the Heart of Man, thus portrayed in the second book :
" Straunge was her tyre, and all her garment blew,
Close rownd about her tuckt with many a plight:
Upon her fist the bird which shonneth vew.
And ever and anone with rosy red
The bashf ull blood her snowy cheekes did dye,
That her became, as pohsht yvory
Which cunning craftesman hand hath overlayd
With fayre vermilion or pure castory."
§ LXXVII. EIGHTH CAPITAL. It has no inscriptions, and its
subjects are not, by themselves, intelligible ; but they appear
to be typical of the degradation of human instincts.
First side. A caricature of Arion on his dolphin ; he wears
a cap ending in a long proboscis-like horn, and plays a violin
with a curious twitch of the bow and wag of the head, very
graphically expressed, but still without anything approaching
to the power of Northern grotesque. His dolphin has a goodly
row of teeth, and the waves beat over his back.
Second side. A human figure, with curly hair and the legs
of a bear ; the paws laid, with great sculptural skill, upon the
foliage. It plays a violin, shaped like a guitar, with a bent
double-stringed bow.
Third side. A figure with a serpent's tail and a monstrous
head, founded on a Negro type, hollow-cheeked, large-lipped,
and wearing a cap made of a serpent's skin, holding a fir-cone
in its hand.
Fourth side. A monstrous figure, terminating below in a
tortoise. It is devouring a gourd, which it grasps greedily
with both hands ; it wears a cap ending in a hoofed leg.
Fifth side. A centaur wearing a crested helmet, and hold-
ing a curved sword.
Sixth side. A knight, riding a headless horse, and wearii
chain armor, with a triangular shield flung behind his
and a two-edged sword.
Seventh side. A figure like that on the fifth, wearing
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 337
round helmet, and with the legs and tail of a horse. He bears
a long mace with a top like a fir-cone.
Eighth side, A figure with curly hair, and an acorn in its
hand, ending below in a fish.
§ Lxxvm. NINTH CAPITAL. First side. Faith. She has her
left hand on her breast, and the cross on her right. Inscribed
u FIDES OPTIMA IN DEO." The Faith of Giotto holds the cross
in her right hand ; in her left, a scroll with the Apostles'
Creed. She treads upon cabalistic books, and has a key sus-
pended to her waist. Spenser's Faith (Fidelia) is still more
spiritual and noble :
" She was araied all in lilly white,
And in her right hand bore a cup of gold,
With wine and water flld up to the hight,
In which a serpent did himselfe enfold,
That horrour made to all that did behold ; ,
But she no whitt did chaunge her constant mood :
And in her other hand she fast did hold
A booke, that was both signd and seald with blood;
Wherein darke things were writt, hard to be understood."
§ LXXIX. Second side. Fortitude. A long-bearded man
[Samson?] tearing open a lion's jaw. The inscription is il-
legible, and the somewhat vulgar personification appears to
belong rather to Courage than Fortitude. On the Renais-
sance copy it is inscribed "FOKTITUDO SUM VIKILIS." The
Latin word has, perhaps, been received by the sculptor as
merely signifying " Strength," the rest of the perfect idea of
this virtue having been given in "Constantia" previously.
But both these Venetian symbols together do not at all ap-
proach the idea of Fortitude as given generally by Giotto and
the Pisan sculptors ; clothed with a lion's skin, knotted about
her neck, and falling to her feet in deep folds ; drawing back
her right hand, with the sword pointed towards her enemy ;
and slightly retired behind her immovable shield, which, with
Giotto, is square, and rested on the ground like a tower, cov-
ering her up to above her shoulders ; bearing on it a lion, and
with broken heads of javelins deeply infixed.
Among the Greeks, this is, of course, one of the principal
338 SECOND PERIOD.
virtues ; apt, however, in their ordinary conception of it tu
degenerate into mere manliness or courage.
§ LXXX. Third sid^e. Temperance ; bearing a pitcher of
water and a cup. Inscription, illegible here, and on the
Renaissance cop}7 nearly so, " TEMPERANTIA SUM " (HTOM' LS) ?
only left. In this somewhat vulgar and most frequent con-
ception of this virtue (afterwards continually repeated, as by
Sir Joshua in his window at New College) temperance is
confused with mere abstinence, the opposite of Gula, or glut-
tony ; whereas the Greek Temperance, a truly cardinal virtue,
is the moderator of all the passions, and so represented by
Giotto, who has placed a bridle upon her lips, and a sword
in her hand, the hilt of which she is binding to the scabbard.
In his system, she is opposed among the vices, not by Gula or
Gluttony, but by Ira, Anger. So also the Temperance of
Spenser, or Sir Guyon, but with mingling of much sternness :
" A goodly knight, all armd in harnesse meete,
That from his head no place appeared to his feete,
His carriage was full comely and upright;
His countenance demure and temperate ;
But yett so sterne and terrible in sight,
That cheard his friendes, and did his foes amate."
The Temperance of the Greeks, Goocppoavvr], involves the
idea of Prudence, and is a most noble virtue, yet properly
marked by Plato as inferior to sacred enthusiasm, though nec-
essary for its government. He opposes it, under the name
" Mortal Temperance" or " the Temperance which is of men,"
to divine madness, ftavia^ or inspiration ; but he most justly
and nobly expresses the general idea of it under the term
vfipi?, which, in the " Phaedrus," is divided into various intem-
perances with respect to various objects, and set forth under
the image of a black, vicious, diseased and furious horse, yoked
by the side of Prudence or Wisdom (set forth under the
figure of a white horse with a crested and noble head, like
that which we have among the Elgin Marbles) to the chariot
of the Soul. The system of Aristotle, as above stated, is
throughout a mere complicated blunder, supported by sophistry.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 339
the laboriously developed mistake of Temperance for the
essence of the virtues which it guides. Temperance in the
mediaeval systems is generally opposed by Anger, or by Folly,
or Gluttony : but her proper opposite is Spenser's Acrasia, the
principal enemy of Sir Guyon, at whose gates we find the sub-
ordinate vice " Excesse," as the introduction to Intemperance ;
a graceful and feminine image, necessary to illustrate the more
dangerous forms of subtle intemperance, as opposed to the
brutal " Gluttony" in the first book. She presses grapes into a
cup, because of the words of St. Paul, " Be not drunk with
wine, wherein is excess ;" but always delicately,
" Into her cup she scruzd with daintie breach
Of her fine fingers, without fowle empeach,
That so faire winepresse made the wine more sweet."
The reader will, I trust, pardon these frequent extracts
from Spenser, for it is nearly as necessary to point out the pro-
found divinity and philosophy of our great English poet, as
the beauty of the Ducal Palace.
§ LXXXI. Fourth side. Humility ; with a veil upon her
head, carrying a lamp in her lap. Inscribed in the copy, " nr-
MILITAS HABITAT IN ME."
This virtue is of course a peculiarly Christian one, hardly
recognized in the Pagan systems, though carefully impressed
upon the Greeks in early life in a manner which at this day
it would be well if we were to imitate, and, together with an
almost feminine modesty, giving an exquisite grace to the
conduct and bearing of the well-educated Greek youth. It is,
of course, one of the leading virtues in all the monkish sys-
tems, but I have not any notes of the manner of its represen-
tation.
§ LXXXII. Fifth side. Charity. A woman with her lap full
of loaves (?), giving one to a child, who stretches his arm out
for it across a broad gap in the leafage of the capital.
Again very far inferior to the Giottesque rendering of this
virtue. In the Arena Chapel she is distinguished from all the
other virtues by having a circular glory round her head, and
a cross of fire ; she is crowned with flowers, presents with her
340 . SECOND PERIOD.
right hand a vase of corn and fruit, and with her left receives
treasure from Christ, who appears above her, to provide her
with the means of continual offices of beneficence, while she
tramples under foot the treasures of the earth.
The peculiar beauty of most of the Italian conceptions of
Charity, is in the subjection of mere munificence to the glow-
ing of her love, always represented by flames ; here in the
form of a cross round her head ; in Orcagna's shrine at Flor-
ence, issuing from a censer in her hand ; and, with Dante,
inflaming her whole form, so that, in a furnace of clear fire,
she could not have been discerned.
Spenser represents her as a mother surrounded by happy
children, an idea afterwards grievously hackneyed and vulgar-
ized by English painters and sculptors.
§ LXXXIII. Sixth side. Justice. Crowned, and with sword.
Inscribed in the copy, " BEX SUM JUSTICIE."
This idea was afterwards much amplified and adorned in
the only good capital of the Renaissance series, under the
Judgment angle. Giotto has also given his whole strength to
the painting of this virtue, representing her as enthroned
under a noble Gothic canopy, holding scales, not by the beam,
but one in each hand ; a beautiful idea, showing that the
equality of the scales of Justice is not owing to natural laws,
but to her own immediate weighing the opposed causes in
her own hands. In one scale is an executioner beheading a
criminal ; in the other an angel crowning a man who seems
(in Selvatico's plate) to have been working at a desk or table.
Beneath her feet is a small predella, representing various
persons riding securely in the woods, and others dancing to
the sound of music.
Spenser's Justice, Sir Artegall, is the hero of an entire
book, and the betrothed knight of Britomart, or chastity.
§ LXXXIV. Seventh side. Prudence. A man with a book
and a pair of compasses, wearing the noble cap, hanging down
towards the shoulder, and bound in a fillet round the brow,
which occurs so frequently during the fourteenth century in
Italy in the portraits of men occupied in any civil capacity.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 34i
This virtue is, as we have seen, conceived under very dif-
ferent degrees of dignity, from mere worldly prudence up to
heavenly wisdom, being opposed sometimes by Stultitia, some-
times by Ignorantia. I do not find, in any of the representa-
tions of her, that her truly distinctive character, namely, fore-
thought, is enough insisted upon: Giotto expresses her vigi-
lance and just measurement or estimate of all things by paint-
ing her as Janus-headed, and gazing into a convex mirror,
with compasses in her right hand ; the convex mirror showing
her power of looking at many things in small compass. But
forethought or anticipation, by which, independently of greater-
or less natural capacities, one man becomes more prudent than
another, is never enough considered or symbolized.
The idea of this virtue oscillates, in the Greek systems,
between Temperance and Heavenly Wisdom.
§ LXXXV. Eighth side. Hope. A figure full of devotional
expression, holding up its hands as in prayer, and looking to a
hand which is extended towards it out of sunbeams. In the
Renaissance copy this hand does rot appear.
Of all the virtues, this is the most distinctively Christian (it
could not, of course, enter definitely into any Pagan scheme) ;
and above all others, it seems to me the testing virtue, — that
by the possession of which we may most certainly determine
whether we are Christians or not ; for many men have charity,
that is to say, general kindness of heart, or even a kind of
faith, who have not any habitual hope of, or longing for,
heaven. The Hope of Giotto is represented as winged, rising
in the air, while an angel holds a crown before her. I do not
know if Spenser was the first to introduce our marine virtue,
leaning on an anchor, a symbol as inaccurate as it is vulgar :
for, in the first place, anchors are not for men, but for ships ;
and in the second, anchorage is the characteristic not of Hope,
but of Faith. Faith is dependent, but Hope is aspirant.
Spenser, however, introduces Hope twice, — tho first time as
the Virtue with the anchor ; but afterwards fallacious Hope,
far more beautifully, in the Masque of Cupid :
" She always smyld, and in her hand did hold
An holy- water sprinckle, dipt in deowo."
344 SECOND PERIOD.
ears attached to his helmet. Tho inscription indecipherable,
all but " SUPERBIA."
Spenser has analyzed this vice with great care. He first
represents it as the Pride of life ; that is to say, the pride which
runs in a deep under current through all the thoughts and acts
of men. As such, it is a feminine vice, directly opposed to
Holiness, and mistress of a castle called the House of Pryde,
arid her chariot is driven by Satan, with a team of beasts,
ridden by the mortal sins. In the throne chamber of her
palace she is thus described :
" So proud she shyned in her princely state,
Looking to Heaven, for Earth she did disdayne;
And sitting high, for lowly she did hate:
Lo, underneath her scornefull feete was layne
A dreadfull dragon with an hideous trayne;
And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright,
Wherein her face she often vewed fayue "
The giant Orgoglio is a baser species of pride, born of the
Earth and Eolus ; that is to say, of sensual and vain conceits.
His foster-father and the keeper of his castle is Ignorance.
(Book I. canto VIIL)
Finally, Disdain is introduced, in other places, as the form
of pride which vents itself in insult to others.
§ LXXXIX. Fourth side. Anger. A woman tearing her dress
open at her breast. Inscription here undecipherable ; out in
the Renaissance copy it is " IRA CRUDELIS EST IN ME."
Giotto represents this vice under the same symbol ; but it
is the weakest of all the figures in the Arena Chapel. The
" Wrath " of Spenser rides upon a lion, brandishing a fire-
brand, his garments stained with blood. Rage, or Furor,
oc«urs subordinately in other places. It appears to me very
strange that neither Giotto nor Spenser should have given any
representation of the restrained Anger, which is infinitely the
most terrible ; both of them make him violent.
§ xc. Fifth side. Avarice. An old woman with a veil
over her forehead, and a bag of money in each hand. A figui
very marvellous for power of expression. The throat is all
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 345
made up of sinews with skinny channels deep between them,
strained as by anxiety, and wasted by famine ; the features
hunger-bitten, the eyes hollow, the look glaring and intense,
yet without the slightest caricature. Inscribed in the Renais-
sance Copy, " AVARITIA IMPLETOR."
Spenser's Avarice (the vice) is much feebler than this ; but
the god Mammon and his kingdom have been described by
him with his usual power. Note the position of the house of
Richesse :
" Betwixt them both was but a little stride,
That did the House of Richesse from Hell-mouth divide."
It is curious that most moralists confuse avarice with
covetousness, although they are vices totally different in their
operation on the human heart, and on the frame of society.
The love of money, the sin of Judas and Ananias, is indeed
the root of all evil in the hardening of the heart ; but " covet-
ousness, which is idolatry," the sin of Ahab, that is, the inor-
dinate desire of some seen or recognized good, — thus destroy-
ing peace of mind, — is probably productive of much more
misery in heart, and error in conduct, than avarice itself, only
covetousness is not so inconsistent with Christianity : for cov-
etousness may partly proceed from vividness of the affections
and hopes, as in David, and be consistent with much charity ;
not so avarice.
§ xci. Sixth side. Idleness. Accidia. A figure much
broken away, having had its arms round two branches of trees.
I do not know why Idleness should be represented as among
trees, unless, in the Italy of the fourteenth century, forest coun-
try was considered as desert, and therefore the domain of Idle-
ness. Spenser fastens this vice especially upon the clergy, —
" Upon a slouthfull asse he chose to ryde,
Arayd in habit blacke, and amis thin,
Like to an holy monck, the service to begin.
And in his hand his portesse still he bare,
That much was worne, but therein little redd.
lie properly makes him the leader of the train of the vices:
" May seem the wayne was very evil ledd,
When such an one had guiding of the way "
346 SECOHD PERIOD.
Observe that subtle touch of truth in the "wearing" of the
portesse, indicating the abuse of books by idle readers, so
thoroughly characteristic of unwilling studentship from the
schoolboy upwards.
§ xcn. Seventh side. Vanity. She is smiling complacently
as she looks into a mirror in her lap. Her robe is embroidered
with roses, and roses form her crown. Undecipherable.
There is some confusion in the expression of this vice,
between pride in the personal appearance and lightness of
purpose. The word Vanitas generally, I think, bears, in the
mediaeval period, the sense given it in Scripture. " Let not
him that is deceived trust in Yanity, for Vanity shall be his
recompense." "Vanity of Vanities." "The Lord knoweth
the thoughts of the wise, that they are vain." It is difficult
to find this sin, — which, after Pride, is the most universal, per-
haps the most fatal, of all, fretting the whole depth of our
humanity into storm " to waft a feather or to drown a fly,"-
definitely expressed in art. Even Spenser, I think, has only
partially expressed it under the figure of Phaedria, more
properly Idle Mirth, in the second book. The idea is, how
ever, entirely worked out in the Vanity Fair of the " Pilgrim'?
Progress."
§ xcni. Eighth side-. Envy. One of the noblest pieces of
expression in the series. She is pointing malignantly with her
finger ; a serpent is wreathed about her head like a cap, an-
other forms the girdle of her waist, and a dragon rests in her
lap.
Giotto has, however, represented her, with still greater
subtlety, as having her fingers terminating in claws, and rais-
ing her right hand with an expression partly of impotent
regret, partly of involuntary grasping ; a serpent, issuing from
her mouth, is about to bite her between the eyes; she has
long membranous ears, horns on her head, and flames consum-
ing her body. The Envy of Spenser is only inferior to tl
of Giotto, because the idea of folly and quickness of hearii
is not suggested by the size of the ear : in other respects it is
even finer, joining the idea of fury, in the wolf on which h(
Till. THE DUCAL PALACE. 341
rides, with that of corruption on his lips, and of discoloration
or distortion in the whole mind :
" Malicious Envy rode
Upon a ravenous wolfe, and still did chaw
Between his cankred teeth a venemous tode,
That all the poison ran about his jaw.
All in a kirtle of discolourd say
He clothed was, ypaynted full of eies,
And in his bosome secretly there lay
An hatefull snake, the which his taile uptye»
In many folds, and mortall sting iraplyes."
He has developed the idea in more detail, and still more
loathsomely, in the twelfth canto of the fifth book.
§ xciv. ELEVENTH CAPITAL. Its decoration is composed
of eight birds, arranged as shown in Plate Y. of the " Seven
Lamps," which, however, was sketched from the Renaissance
copy. These birds are all varied in form and action, but not
so as to require special description.
§ xcv. TWELFTH CAPITAL. This has been very interest-
ing, but is grievously defaced, four of its figures being entirely
broken away, and the character of two others quite undeci-
pherable. It is fortunate that it has been copied in the thirty-
third capital of the Renaissance series, from which we are able
to identify the lost figures.
first side. Misery. A man with a wan face, seemingly
pleading with a child who has its hands crossed on its breast.
There is a buckle at his own breast in the shape of a cloven
heart. Inscribed " MISERIA."
The intention of this figure is not altogether apparent, as it
is by no means treated as a vice ; the distress seeming real,
and like that of a parent in poverty mourning over his child.
Yet it seems placed here as in direct opposition to the virtue
of Cheerfulness, which follows next in order ; rather, however,
I believe, with the intention of illustrating human life, than
the character of the vice which, as we have seen, Dante placed
in the circle of hell. The word in that case would, I think,
have been " Tristitia," the " unholy Griefe" of Spenser —
348 SECOND PERIOD.
" All in sable sorrowfully clad,
Downc hanging his dull head with heavy chere:
A pair of pincers in his hand he had,
With which he pinched people to the heart."
He has farther amplified the idea under another figure in
the fifth canto of the fourth book :
" His name was Care; a blacksmith by his trade,
That neither day nor night from working spared;
But to small purpose yron wedges made :
Those be unquiet thoughts that carefull minds invade.
Rude was his garment, and to rags all rent,
Ne better had he, ne for better cared;
With blistered hands among the cinders brent."
It is to be noticed, however, that in the Renaissance copy
this figure is stated to be, not Miseria, but " Misericordia."
The contraction is a very moderate one, Misericordia being in
old MS. written always as "Mia." If this reading be right,
the figure is placed here rather as the companion, than the
opposite, of Cheerfulness ; unless, indeed, it is intended to unite
the idea of Mercy and Compassion with that of Sacred Sorrow.
§ xcvi. Second side. Cheerfulness. A woman with long
flowing hair, crowned with roses, playing on a tambourine,
and with open lips, as singing. Inscribed " ALACKITAS."
We have already met with this virtue among those espe-
cially set by Spenser to attend on Womanhood. It is inscribed
in the Renaissance copy, " ALACHKITAS CHANIT MECUM." Note
the gutturals of the rich and fully developed Venetian dialect
now affecting the Latin, which is free from them in the earlier
capitals.
§ xcvu. Third side. Destroyed ; but, from the copy, we
find it has been Stultitia, Folly; and it is there represented
simply as a man riding, a sculpture worth the consideratic
of the English residents who bring their horses to Yenic
Giotto gives Stultitia a feather, cap, and club. In early mam
scripts he is always eating with one hand, and striking wit
the other ; in later ones he has a cap and bells, or cap
with a cock's head, whence the word " coxcomb."
VIII. TIIE J)UCAL PALACE. 340
§ xcvrn. Fourth side. Destroyed, all but a book, which
identifies it with the " Celestial Chastity " of the Renaissance
copy ; there represented as a woman pointing to a book (con-
necting the convent life with the pursuit of literature ?).
Spenser's Chastity, Britomart, is the most exquisitely
wrought of all his characters ; but, as before noticed, she is
not the Chastity of the convent, but of wedded life.
§ xcix. Fifth side. Only a scroll is left ; but, from the
copy, we find it has been Honesty or Truth. Inscribed " HON-
ESTATEM DILIGO." It is very curious, that among all the Chris-
tian systems of the virtues which we have examined, we should
find this one in Venice only.
The Truth of Spenser, Una, is, after Chastity, the most
exquisite character in the " Faerie Queen."
§ c. Sixth side. Falsehood. An old woman leaning on
a crutch ; and inscribed in the copy, " FALSITAS IN ME SEMPER
EST." The Fidessa of Spenser, the great enemy of Una, or
Truth, is far more subtly conceived, probably not without
special reference to the Papal deceits. In her true form she
is a loathsome hag, but in her outward aspect,
" A goodly lady, clad in scarlot red,
Purfled with gold and pearle ; . . .
Her wanton palfrey all was overspred
With tinsell trappings, woven like a wave,
Whose bridle rung with golden bels and bosses brave. "
Dante's Fraud, Geryon* is the finest personification of all,
but the description (Inferno, canto xvn.) is too long to be
quoted.
§ ci. Seventh side. Injustice. An armed figure holding
a halbert ; so also in the copy. The figure used by Giotto
with the particular intention of representing unjust govern-
ment, is represented at the gate of an embattled castle in a
forest, between rocks, while various deeds of violence are com-
mitted at his feet. Spenser's " Adicia " is a furious hag, at
last transformed into a tiger.
Eighth side. A man with a dagger looking sorrowfully at
a child, who turns its back to him. I cannot understand this
350 SECOND PERIOD.
figure. It is inscribed in the copy, " ASTINECIA (Abstinentia ?)
opnTMA ?"
§ en. THIRTEENTH CAPITAL. It has lions' heads all round,
coarsely cut.
FOURTEENTH CAPITAL. It has various animals, each sitting
on its haunches. Three dogs, one a greyhound, one long-
haired, one short-haired with bells about its neck; two
monkeys, one with fan-shaped hair projecting on each side
of its face ; a noble boar, with its tusks, hoofs, and bristles
sharply cut ; and a lion and lioness.
§ cm. FIFTEENTH CAPITAL. The pillar to which it belongs is
thicker than the rest, as well as the one over it in the upper arcade.
The sculpture of this capital is also much coarser, and seems
to me later than that of the rest ; and it has no inscription,
which is embarrassing, as its subjects have had much meaning ;
but I believe Selvatico is right in supposing it to have been
intended for a general illustration of Idleness.
First side. A woman with a distaff ; her girdle richly
decorated, and fastened by a buckle.
Second side. A youth in a long mantle, with a rose in his hand.
Third side. A woman in a turban stroking a puppy which
she holds by the haunches.
Fourth side. A man with a parrot.
Fifth side. A woman in very rich costume, with braided
hair, and dress thrown into minute folds, holding a rosary (?)
in her left hand, her right on her Breast.
Sixth side. A man with a very thoughtful face, laying his
hand upon the leaves of the capital.
Seventh side. A crowned lady, with a rose in her hand.
Eighth side. A boy with a ball in his left hand, and his
right laid on his breast.
§civ. SIXTEENTH CAPITAL. It is decorated with eight
large heads, partly intended to be grotesque,* and very coarse
* Selvatico states that these are intended to be representative of eight
nations, Latins, Tartars, Turks, Hungarians, Greeks, Goths, Egj^tians, and
Persians. Either the inscriptions are now defaced or I have carelessly
omitted to note them.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 351
5tnd bad, except only that in the sixth side, which is totally dif-
ferent from all the rest, and looks like a portrait. It is thin,
thoughtful, and dignified ; thoroughly fine in every way. It
wears a cap surmounted by two winged lions ; and, therefore,
I think Selvatico must have inaccurately written the list given
in the note, for this head is certainly meant to express the
superiority of the Venetian character over that of other
nations. Nothing is more remarkable in all early sculpture,
than its appreciation of the signs of dignity of character in
the features, and the way in which it can exalt the principal
figure in any subject by a few touches.
§ cv. SEVENTEENTH CAPITAL. This has been so destroyed
by the sea wind, which sweeps at this point of the arcade
round the angle of the palace, that its inscriptions are no
longer legible, and great part of its figures are gone. Sel-
vatico states them as follows : Solomon, the wise ; Priscian,
the grammarian ; Aristotle, the logician ; Tully, the orator ;
Pythagoras, the philosopher ; Archimedes, the mechanic ; Or-
pheus, the musician ; Ptolemy, the astronomer. The frag-
ments actually remaining are the following :
First side. A figure with two books, in a robe richly
decorated with circles of roses. Inscribed " SALOMON (SAP)
IENS."
Second side. A man with one book, poring over it : he
has had a long stick or reed in his hand. Of inscription only
the letters " GRAMMATIC" remain.
TJdrd side. " ARISTOTLE :" so inscribed. He has a peaked
double beard and a flat cap, from under which his long hair
falls down his back.
Fourth side. Destroyed.
Fifth side. Destroyed, all but a board with three (counters ?)
on it.
Sixth side. A figure with compasses. Inscribed " GEO-
MET * *"
Seventh side. Nothing is left but a guitar with its handle
wrought into a lion's head.
Eighth side. Destroyed.
352 SECOND PERIOD,
§ cvi. We have now arrived at the EIGHTEENTH CAPITAL,
the most interesting and beautiful of the palace. It repre-
sents the planets, and the sun and moon, in those divisions of
the zodiac known to astrologers as their " houses ;" and per-
haps indicates, by the position in which they are placed, the
period of the year at which this great corner-stone was laid.
The inscriptions above have been in quaint Latin rhyme, but
are now decipherable only in fragments, and that with the
more difficulty because the rusty iron bar that binds the
abacus has broken away, in its expansion, nearly all the upper
portions of the stone, and with them the signs of contraction,
which are of great importance. I shall give the fragments of
them that I could decipher ; first as the letters actually stand
(putting those of which I am doubtful in brackets, with a
note of interrogation), and" then as I would read them.
§ cvn. It should be premised that, in modern astrology,
the houses of the planets are thus arranged :
The house of the Sun, is Leo.
" Moon, " Cancer.
" of Mars, " Aries and Scorpio.
" Venus, " Taurus and Libra.
" Mercury, " Gemini and Virgo.
" Jupiter, " Sagittarius and Pisces.
" Saturn, " Capricorn.
" Herschel, " Aquarius.
The Herschel planet being of course unknown to the old
astrologers, we have only the other six planetary powers,
together with the sun; and Aquarius is assigned to Saturn
as his house. I could not find Capricorn at all ; but this sign
may have been broken away, as the whole capital is grievously
defaced. The eighth side of the capital, which the Herschel
planet would now have occupied, bears a sculpture of the Crea-
tion of Man : it is the most conspicuous side, the one set diago-
nally across the angle ; or the eighth in our usual mode of
reading the capitals, from which I shall not depart.
§ cvm. The first side, then, or that towards the Sea, has
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 353
Aquarius, as the house of Saturn, represented as a seated
jiijiire beautifully draped, pouring a stream of water out of an
amphora over the leaves of the capital. His inscription is :
"ET SATURNE DOMUS (ECLOCEIUTNT ?) 1s 7BRE."
§ cix. Second side. Jupiter, in his houses Sagittarius
and Pisces, represented throned, with an upper dress disposed
in radiating folds about his neck, and hanging down upon his
breast, ornamented by small pendent trefoiled studs or bosses.
He wears the drooping bonnet and long gloves ; but the folds
about the neck, shot forth to express the rays of the star, are
the most remarkable characteristic of the figure. He raises
his sceptre in his left hand over Sagittarius, represented as the
centaur Chiron ; and holds two thunnies in his right. Some*
thing rough, like a third fish, has been broken away below
"them ; the more easily because this part of the group is
entirely undercut, and the two fish glitter in the light, relieved
on the deep gloom below the leaves! The inscription is :
" ENDE JO VI'* DONA PISES SIMUL ATQ" CIRONA."
Or,
"Inde Jovis dona
Pisces simul atque Chirona."
Domus is, I suppose, to be understood before Jovis : " Then
-the house of Jupiter gives (or governs?) the fishes and
Chiron."
§ ex. Third side. Mars, in his houses Aries and Scor-
pio. Represented as a very ugly knight in chain mail, seated
sideways on the ram, whose horns are broken away, and hav-
ing a large scorpion in his left hand, whose tail is broken also, to
the infinite injury of the group, for it seems to have curled
across to the angle leaf, and formed a bright line of light, like
the fish in the hand of Jupiter. The knight carries a shield,
on which fire and water are sculptured, and bears a banner
upon his lance, with the word "DEFEROSUM," which puzzled
me for some time. It should be read, I believe, " De ferro
* The comma in these inscriptions stands for a small cuneiform mark, I
believe of contraction, and the small " for a zigzag mark of the same kind.
TUc dots or periods arc similarly marked on the stone.
354 SECOND PERIOD.
sum ;" which would be good Venetian Latin for " I am
iron."
§ cxi. Fourth side. The Sun, in his house Leo. Repre-
sented under the figure of Apollo, sitting on the Lion, with
rays shooting from his head, and the world in his hand.
The inscription :
" TU ES DOMU' SOLIS (QUO * ?) SIGKE LEONI."
I believe the first phrase is, " Tune est Domus solis ;" but
there is a letter gone after the " quo," and I have no idea
what case of signum " signe" stands for.
§ cxn. Fifth side. Yenus, in her houses Taurus and Libra.
The most beautiful figure of the series. She sits upon the
bull, who is deep in the dewlap, and better cut than most of
the animals, holding a mirror in her right hand, and the scales
in her left. Her breast is very nobly and tenderly indicated
under the folds of her drapery, which is exquisitely studied in
its fall. What is left of the inscription, runs :
"LIBRA CUM TAURO DOMUS * * * PURIOR AUR * ."
§ cxm. Sixth side. Mercury, represented as wearing a
pendent cap, and holding a book : he is supported by three
children in reclining attitudes, representing his houses Gemini
and Virgo. But I cannot understand the inscription, though
more than usually legible.
"OCCUPAT ERIGONE STIBONS GEMINUQ' LACONE."
§ cxiv. Seventh side. The Moon, in her house Cancer.
This sculpture, which is turned towards the Piazzetta, is the
most picturesque of the series. The moon is represented as a
woman in a boat, upon the sea, who raises the crescent in her
right hand, and with her left draws a crab out of the waves,
up the boat's side. The moon was, I believe, represented in
Egyptian sculptures as in a boat ; but I rather think the Vene-
tian was not aware of this, and that he meant to express the
peculiar sweetness of the moonlight at Venice, as seen across
the lagoons. Whether this was intended by putting the planet
in the boat3 may be questionable, but assuredly the idea was
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. ?>~>~>
meant to be conveyed by the dress of the figure. For all the
draperies of the other figures on this capital, as well as on the
rest of the facade, are disposed in severe but full folds, showing
little of the forms beneath them ; but the moon's drapery
r'ipplcs down to her feet, so as exactly to suggest the trembling
of the moonlight on the waves. This beautiful idea is highly
characteristic of the thoughtfulness of the early sculptors : five
hundred men may be now found who could have cut the
drapery, as such, far better, fcTr one who would have disposed
its folds with this intention. The inscription is :
" LUNE CANCER DOMU T. PBET IORBE SIGNORU."
§ cxv. Eighth side. God creating Man. Represented as a
throned figure, with a glory round the head, laying his left
hand on the head of a naked youth, and sustaining him with
his right hand. The inscription puzzled me for a long time ;
but except the lost r and m of " formavit," and a letter
quite undefaced, but to me unintelligible, before the word
Eva, in the shape of a figure of 7, I have safely ascertained
the rest.
"DELJMO DSADA DECO STAFO ** AVIT7EVA."
Or
" De limo Dominus Adam, de costa fo(rm) avit Evam;"
From the dust the Lord made Adam, and from the rib Eve.
I imagine the whole of this capital, therefore — the principal
one of the old palace, — to have been intended to signify, first,
the formation of the planets for the service of man upon the
earth ; secondly, the entire subjection of the fates and fortune
of man to the will of God, as determined from the time when
the earth and stars were made, and, in fact, written in the
volume of the stars themselves.
Thus interpreted, the doctrines of judicial astrology were
not only consistent with, but an aid to, the most spiritual and
humble Christianity.
In the workmanship and grouping of its foliage, this capital
is, on the whole, the finest I know in Europe. The sculptor
has put his whole strength into it. I trust that it will appear
among the other Venetian casts lately taken for the Crystal
356 SECOND PERIOD.
Palace ; but if not, I have myself cast all its figures, and two
of its leaves, and I intend to give drawings of them on a large
scale in my folio work.
§ cxvi. NINETEENTH CAPITAL. This is, of course, the second
counting from the Sea, on the Piazzetta side of the palace, call-
ing that of the Fig-tree angle the first.
It is the most important capital, as a piece of evidence in
point of dates, in the whole palace. Great pains have been
taken with it, and in some portion of the accompanying fur-
niture or ornaments of each of its figures a small piece of
colored marble has been inlaid, with peculiar significance :
for the capital represents the arts of sculpture and architec-
ture ; and the inlaying of the colored stones (which are far
too small to be effective at a distance, and are found in this
one capital only of the whole series) is merely an expression
of the architect's feeling of the essential importance of this art
of inlaying, and of the value of color generally in his own art.
§ cxvu. First side. " ST. SIMPLICIUS" : so inscribed. A
figure working with a pointed chisel on a small oblong block
of green serpentine, about four inches long by one wide, inlaid
in the capital. The chisel is, of course, in the left hand, "but
the right is held up open, with the palm outwards.
Second side. A crowned figure, carving the image of a
child on a small statue, with a ground of red marble. The
sculptured figure is highly finished, and is in type of head
much like the Ham or Japheth at the Yine angle. Inscription
effaced.
Third side. An old man, uncrowned, but with curling
hair, at work on a small column, with its capital complete, and
a little shaft of dark red marble, spotted with paler red. The
capital is precisely of the form of that found in the palace of
the Tiepolos and the other thirteenth century work of Yenice.
This one figure would be quite enough, without any other
evidence whatever, to determine the date of this flank of the
Ducal Palace as not later, at all events, than the first half of
the fourteenth century. Its inscription is broken away, all but
" DISIPULO."
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 357
Fourth side. A crowned figure ; hut the object on which
it has been working is broken away, and all the inscription except
"ST. E(N?)AS."
Fifth side. A man with a turban, and a sharp chisel, at
work on a kind of panel or niche, the back of which is of red
marble.
Sixth side. A crowned figure, with hammer and chisel,
employed on a little range of windows of the fifth order, hav-
ing roses set, instead of orbicular ornaments, between the span-
drils, with a rich cornice, and a band of marble inserted above.
This sculpture assures us of the date of the fifth order window,
which it shows to have been universal in the early fourteenth
century.
There are also five arqhes in the block on which the sculptor
is working, marking the frequency of the number five in the
window groups of the time.
Seventh side. A figure at work on a pilaster, with Lombardic
thirteenth century capital (for account of the series of forms in
Venetian capitals, see the final Appendix of the next volume),
the shaft of dark red spotted marble.
Eighth side. A figure with a rich open crown, working on
a delicate recumbent statue, the head of which is laid on a
pillow covered with a rich chequer pattern ; the whole supported
on a block of dark red marble. Inscription broken away, all
but " ST. SYM. (Symmachus ?) TV * * ANVS," There appear,
therefore, altogether to have been five saints, two of them
popes, if Simplicius is the pope of that name (three in front,
two on the fourth and sixth sides), alternating with the three
uncrowned workmen in the manual labor of sculpture. I did
not, therefore, insult our present architects in saying above
that they " ought to work in the mason's yard with their men."
It would be difficult to find a more interesting expression of
the devotional spirit in which all great work was undertaken at
this time.
§ cxvin. TWENTIETH CAPITAL. It is adorned with heads of
animals, and is the finest of the whole series in the broad massive-
ness of its effect ; so simply characteristic, indeed, of the gran-
358 SECOND PERIOD.
deur of style in the entire building, that I chose it for the first
Plate in my folio work. In spite of the sternness of its plan,
however, it is wrought with great care in surface detail ; and the
ornamental value of the minute chasing obtained by the deli-
cate plumage of the birds, and the clustered bees on the honey-
comb in the bear's mouth, opposed to the strong simplicity of
its general form, cannot be too much admired. There are also
more grace, life, and variety in the sprays of foliage on each
side of it, and under the heads, than in any other capital of the
series, though the earliness of the workmanship is marked by
considerable hardness and coldness in the larger heads. A
Northern Gothic workman, better acquainted with bears and
wolves than it was possible to become in St. Mark's Place,
would have put far more life into the^e heads, but he could not
have composed them more ekilfully.
§ cxix. First side. A lion with a stag's haunch in his
mouth. Those readers who have the folio plate, should observe
the peculiar way in which the ear is cut into the shape of a
ring, jagged or furrowed on the edge; an archaic mode of
treatment peculiar, in the Ducal Palace, to the lions' heads of
the fourteenth century. The moment we reach the Renais-
sance work, the lions' ears are smooth. Inscribed simply," LEO."
Second side. A wolf with a dead bird in his mouth, its
body wonderfully true in expression of the passiveness of
death. The feathers are each wrought with a central quill and
radiating filaments. Inscribed " LUPUS."
TJtird side. A fox, not at all like one, with a dead cock in
his mouth, its comb and pendent neck admirably designed so as
to fall across the great angle leaf of the capital, its tail hanging
down on the other side,, its long straight feathers exquisitely
cut. Inscribed " (VULP ?)is."
Fourth side. Entirely broken away.
Fifth side. "APER." "Well tusked, with a head of maize
in his mouth ; at least I suppose it to be maize, though shaped
like a pine-cone.
Sixth sift,--. " CIIAXIS." With a bone, very ill cut ; and a
bald-headed species of dog, with ugly flap ears.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 350
Seventh side. " MUSCTPULUS." "With a rat (?) in his mouth.
Eighth side. " URSUS." With a honeycomb, covered with
large bees.
§ cxx. TWENTY-FIRST CAPITAL. Represents the principal
inferior professions.
First side. An old man, with his brow deeply wrinkled,
and very expressive features, beating in a kind of mortar with
a hammer. Inscribed " LAPICIDA SUM."
Second side. I believe, a goldsmith ; he is striking a small
flat bowl or patera, on a pointed anvil, with a light hammer.
The inscription is gone.
Third side. A shoemaker with a shoe in his hand, and an
instrument for cutting leather suspended beside him. Inscrip-
tion undecipherable.
Fourth side. Much broken. A carpenter planing a beam
resting on two horizontal logs. Inscribed " CARPENTARIUS SUM."
Fifth side. A figure shovelling fruit into a tub ; the latter
very carefully carved from what appears to have been an excel-
lent piece of cooperage. Two thin laths cross-each other over
.the top of it. The inscription, now lost, was, according to Sel-
vatico, " MENSURATOR" ?
Sixth side. A man, with a large hoe, breaking the ground,
which lies in irregular furrows and clods before him. Now
undecipherable, but according to Selvatico, " AGRICHOLA."
Seventh side. A man, in a pendent cap, writing on a large
scroll which falls over his knee. Inscribed " NOTARIUS
SUM."
Eighth side. A man forging a sword, or scythe-blade : he
wears a large skull-cap ; beats with a large hammer on a solid
anvil ; and is inscribed " FABER SUM."
§ cxxi. TWENTY-SECOND CAPITAL. The Ages of Man ; and
the influence of the planets on human life.
First side. The moon, governing infancy for four years,
according to Selvatico. I have no note of this side, having, I
suppose, been prevented from raising the ladder against it by
some fruit-stall or other impediment in the regular course of
my examination ; and then forgotten to return to it.
3GO SECOND PERIOD.
Second side. A child with a tablet, and an alphabe in-
scribed on it. The legend above is
"MECUREU" DNT. PUERICUE PAN. X."
Or, " Mercurius dominatur pueritise per annos X." (Selvatico
reads VII.) " Mercury governs boyhood for ten (or seven)
years."
Third side. An older youth, with another tablet, but broken.
Inscribed
" ADOLOSCENCIE * * * P. AN. VII."
Selvatico misses this side altogether, as I did the first, so
that the lost planet is irrecoverable, as the inscription is now
defaced. Note the o -for e in adolescentia ; so also we con-
stant ly find u for o ; showing, together with much other incon-
testable evidence of the same kind, how full and deep the
old pronunciation of Latin always remained, and how ridicu-
IOUH our English mincing of the vowels would have sounded
to a Roman ear.
Fourth side. A youth with a hawk on his fist.
£ — —
"lUVENTUTI DNT SOL. P. AN. XIX."
The son governs youth for nineteen years.
Fifth side. A man sitting, helmed, with a sword over his
shoulder. Inscribed
"SENECTUTT DNT MARS. P. AN. XV."
Mars governs manhood for fifteen years.
Sixth side. A very graceful and serene figure, in the pen-
dent cap, reading.
"SENICIE DNT JUPITER, P. ANN. XU."
Jupiter governs age for twelve years.
Seventh side. An old man in a skull-cap, praying.
"DECREPITE DNT SATN UQ§ ADMOTE." (Saturnus usque ad mortem.^
Saturn governs decrepitude until death.
Eighth side. The dead body lying on a mattress.
"ULTIMA EST MORS PENA PECCATI."
Last comes death, the penalty of sin.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 3G1
§ cxxii. Shakspeare's Seven Ages are of course merely the
expression of this early and well known system. He has de-
prived the dotage of its devotion ; but I think wisely, as the
Italian system would imply that devotion was, or should be,
always delayed until dotage.
TWENTY-THIRD CAPITAL. I agree with Selvatico in thinking
this has been restored. It is decorated with large and vulgar
heads.
§ CXXHI. TWENTY-FOURTH CAPITAL. This belongs to the
large shaft which sustains the great party wall of the Sala del
Gran Consiglio. The shaft is thicker than the rest ; but the
capita], though ancient, is coarse and somewhat inferior in
design to the others of the series. It represents the history
of marriage : the lover first seeing his mistress at a window,
then addressing her, bringing her presents ; then the bridal,
the birth and the death of a child. But I have not been able
to examine these sculptures properly, because the pillar is
encumbered by the railing which surrounds the two guns set
before the Austrian guard-house.
§ cxxiv. TWENTY-FIFTH CAPITAL. We have here the em-
ployments of the months, with which we are already tolerably
acquainted. There are, however, one or two varieties worth
noticing in this series.
First side. March. Sitting triumphantly in a rich dress, as
the beginning of the year.
Second side. April and May. April with a lamb : May
with a feather fan in her hand.
Third side. June. Carrying cherries in a basket.
I did not give this series with the others in the previous
chapter, because this representation of June is peculiarly
_ Venetian. It is called " the month of cherries," mese delle
ceriese, in the popular rhyme on the conspiracy of Tiepolo,
quoted above, Vol. I.
The cherries principally grown near Venice are of a deep
red color, and large, but not of high flavor, though refreshing.
They are carved upon the pillar with great care, all their stalks
undercut.
3G2 SECOND PERIOD.
Fourth side. July and August. The first reaping ; tl
leaves of the straw being given, shooting out from the tnbi
stalk. August, opposite, beats (the grain ?) in a basket.
Fifth side. September. A woman standing in a wine-tul
and holding a branch of vine. Very beautiful.
Sixth side. October and November. I could not mal
out their occupation ; they seem to be roasting or boiling soi
root over a fire.
Seventh side. December. Killing pigs, as usual.
Eighth side. January warming his feet, and Februs
frying fish. This last employment is again as characteristic
of the Venetian winter as the cherries are of the Venetit
summer.
The inscriptions are undecipherable, except a few lett
here and there, and the words MARCIUS, APRILIS, and FEBRI
ARIUS.
This is the last of the capitals of the early palace ; the ne?
or twenty-sixth capital, is the first of those executed in tl
fifteenth century under Foscari ; and hence to the Judgmei
angle the traveller has nothing to do but to compare the bs
copies of the earlier work with their originals, or to obsei
the total want of invention in the Renaissance sculptor, wher
ever he has depended on his own resources. This, howeve
always with the exception of the twenty-seventh and of
last capital, which are both fine.
I shall merely enumerate the subjects and point out tl
plagiarisms of these capitals, as they are not worth descriptior
§ cxxv. TWENTY-SIXTH CAPITAL. Copied from the fifteent
merely changing the succession of the figures.
TWENTY-SEVENTH CAPITAL. I think it possible that tl
may be part of the old work displaced in joining the m
palace with the old ; at all events, it is well designed, thou^
a little coarse. It represents eight different kinds of fruit,
each in a basket ; the characters well given, and groups well
arranged, but without much care or finish. The names are
inscribed above, though somewhat unnecessarily, and wit
certainly as much disrespect to the beholder's intelligence
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 303
the sculptor's art, namely, ZEREXIS, PIRI, CHUCUMERIS, PERSICI,
ZUCHE, MOLONI, Fici, HuvA. Zerexis (cherries) and Zuclie
(gourds) both begin with the same letter, whether meant for
z, s, or c 1 am not sure. The Zuche are the common gourds,
divided into two protuberances, one larger than the other,
like a bottle compresed near the neck ; and the Moloni are
the long water-melons, which, roasted, form a staple food of
the Venetians to this day.
§ cxxvi. TWENTY-EIGHTH CAPITAL. Copied from the sev-
enth.
TWENTY-NINTH CAPITAL. Copied from the ninth.
THIRTIETH CAPITAL. Copied from the tenth. The
"Accidia" is noticeable as having the inscription complete,
"ACCIDIA ME STRINGIT;" and the "Luxuria" for its utter want
of expression, having a severe and calm face, a robe up to the
neck, and her hand upon her breast. The inscription is also
different : " LUXURIA SUM STERC" (?) INFERI " (?).
THIRTY-FIRST CAPITAL. Copied from the eighth.
THIRTY-SECOND CAPITAL. Has no inscription, only fully
robed figures laying their hands, without any meaning, on their
own shoulders, heads, or chins, or on the leaves around them.
THIRTY-THIRD CAPITAL. Copied from the twelfth.
THIRTY-FOURTH CAPITAL. Copied from the eleventh.
THIRTY-FIFTH CAPITAL. Has children, with birds or fruit,
pretty in features, and utterly inexpressive, like the cherubs
of the eighteenth century.
§ cxxvii. THIRTY-SIXTH CAPITAL. This is the last of the
Piazzetta facade, the elaborate one under the Judgment angle.
Its foliage is copied from the eighteenth at the opposite side,
with an endeavor on the part of the Renaissance sculptor to
refine upon it, by which he has merely lost some of its truth
and force. This capital will, however, be always thought, at
first, the most beautiful of the whole series : and indeed it is
very noble ; its groups of figures most carefully studied, very
graceful, and much more pleasing than those of the earlier
work, though with less real power in them ; and its foliage is
only inferior to that of the magnificent Fig-tree angle. It
364 SECOND PERIOD.
represents, on its front or first side, Justice enthroned, seated
on two lions ; and on the seven other sides examples of acts of
justice or good government, or figures of lawgivers, in the
following order :
Second side. Aristotle, with two pupils, giving laws.
Inscribed :
"ARISTOT * * CHE DIE LEGE."
Aristotle who declares laws.
Third side. I have mislaid my note of this side : Selvatico
and Lazari call it " Isidore" (?).*
Fourth side. Solon with his pupils. Inscribed :
"SAL0 UNO DEI SETE SAVI DI GRECIA CHE DIE LEGE."
Solon, one of the seven sages of Greece, who declares laws.
Note, by the by, the pure Venetian dialect used in this capi-
tal, instead of the Latin in the more ancient ones. One of the
seated pupils in this sculpture is remarkably beautiful in the
sweep of his flowing drapery.
Fifth side. The chastity of Scipio. Inscribed :
"ISOTONE A CHASTITA CH * * * E LA FIA (e la figlia?) * * ARE."
A soldier in a plumed bonnet presents a kneeling maiden to
the seated Scipio, who turns thoughtfully away.
Sixth side. Numa Pompilius building churches.
"NUMA POMPILIO IMPERADOR EDIFICHADOR DI TEMPI E CHIESE."
Kuma, in a kind of hat with a crown above it, directing a
soldier in Roman armor (note this, as contrasted with the
mail of the earlier capitals). They point to a tower of three
stories filled with tracery.
Seventh side. Moses receiving the law. Inscribed :
" QUANDO MOSE RECEVE LA LEGE I SUL MONTE."
Moses kneels on a rock, whence springs a beautifully fancic
tree, with clusters of three berries in the centre of three leave
sharp and quaint, like fine Northern Gothic. The half
*
* Can they have mistaken the ISIPIONE of the fifth side for the wor
Isidore?
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 3G5
of tlie Deity comes out of the abacus, the arm meeting that of
Moses, both at full stretch, with the stone tablets between.
Eighth side. Trajan doing justice to the Widow.
"TRAJANO IMPERADOR CUE FA JUSTITIA A LA VEDOVA."
lie is riding spiritedly, his mantle blown out behind : the
widow kneeling before his horse.
§ cxxvm. The reader will observe that this capital is of
peculiar interest in its relation to the much disputed question
of the character of the later government of Venice. It is the
assertion by that government of its belief that Justice only
could be the foundation of its stability ; as these stones of
Justice and Judgment are the foundation of its halls of council.
And this profession of their faith may be interpreted in two
ways. Most modern historians would call it, in common
with the continual reference to the principles of justice in the
political and judicial language of the period,* nothing more
than a cloak for consummate violence and guilt ; and it may
easily be proved to have been so in myriads of instances. But
in the main, I believe the expression of feeling to be genuine.
I do not believe, of the majority of the leading Venetians of
this period whose portraits have come down to us, that they
were deliberately and everlastingly hypocrites. I see no
hypocrisy in their countenances. Much capacity of it, much
subtlety, much natural and acquired reserve ; but no meanness.
On the contrary, infinite grandeur, repose, courage, and the
peculiar unity and tranquillity of expression which come of
sincerity or wholeness of heart, and which it would take much
demonstration to make me believe could by any possibility be
seen on the countenance of an insincere man. I trust, there-
fore, that these Venetian nobles of the fifteenth century did, in
the main, desire to do judgment and justice to all men ; but,
as the whole system of morality had been by this time under-
mined by the teaching of the Romish Church, the idea of
justice had become separated from that of truth, so that dis-
* Compare the speech of the Doge Mocenigo, above, — "first justice, and
then the interests of the state:" and see Vol. III. Chap. II. § LIX.
366 SECOND PEKIOD.
simulation in the interest of the state assumed the aspect of
duty. We had, perhaps, better consider, with some careful-
ness, the mode in which our own government is carried on,
and the occasional difference between parliamentary and pri-
vate morality, before we judge mercilessly of the Venetians
in this respect. The secrecy with which their political and
criminal trials were conducted, appears to modern eyes like a
confession of sinister intentions ; but may it not also be con-
sidered, and with more probability, as the result of an endeav-
or to do justice in an age of violence ? — the only means by
which Law could establish its footing in the midst of feudalism.
Might not Irish juries at this day justifiably desire to conduct
their proceedings with some greater approximation to the
judicial principles of the Council of Ten ( Finally, if we
examine, with critical accuracy, the evidence on which our
present impressions of Venetian government are founded, we
shall discover, in the first place, that two-thirds of the tradi-
tions of its cruelties are romantic fables : in the second, that
the crimes of which it can be proved to have been guilty,
differ only from those committed by the other Italian powers
in being done less wantonly, and under prof ounder conviction
of their political expediency : and lastly, that the final degra-
dation of the Venetian power appears owing not so much to
the principles of its government, as to their being forgotten in
the pursuit of pleasure.
§ cxxix. We have now examined the portions of the palace
which contain the principal evidence of the feeling of its
builders. The capitals of the upper arcade are exceedingly
various in their character ; their design is formed, as in the
lower series, of eight . leaves, thrown into volutes at the
angles, and sustaining figures at the flanks ; but these figures
have no inscriptions, and though evidently not without mean-
ing, cannot be interpreted without more knowledge than
possess of ancient symbolism. Many of the capitals towai
the Sea appear to have been restored, and to be rude copic
of the ancient ones ; others, though apparently original, have
been somewhat carelessly wrought ; but those of them, whk
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 367
are both genuine and carefully treated, are even finer in com-
position than any, except the eighteenth, in the lower arcade.
The traveller in Venice ought to ascend into the corridor,
and examine with great care the series of capitals which
extend on the Piazzetta side from the Fig-tree angle to the
pilaster which carries the party wall of the Sala del Gran
Consiglio. As examples of graceful composition in massy'
capitals meant for hard service and distant effect, these are
among the finest things I know in Gothic art ; and that above
the fig-tree is remarkable for its sculptures of the four winds ;
each on the side turned towards the wind represented. Le-
vante, the east wind ; a figure with rays round its head, to
show that it is always clear weather when that wind blows,
raising the sun out of the sea: Hotro, the south wind;
crowned, holding the sun in its right hand : Ponente, the
west wind ; plunging the sun into the sea : and Tramontana,
the north wind ; looking up at the north star. This capital
should be carefully examined, if for no other reason than to
attach greater distinctness of idea to the magnificent verbiage
of Milton :
" Thwart of these, as fierce,
Forth rush the Levant and the Ponent winds,
Eurus, and Zephyr; with "their lateral noise,
Sirocco and Libecchio."
I may also especially point out the bird feeding its three
young ones on the seventh pillar on the Piazzetta side ; but
there is no end to the fantasy of these sculptures ; and the
traveller ought to observe them all carefully, until he comes
to the great Pilaster or complicated pier which sustains the
party wall of the Sala del Consiglio ; that is to say, the forty-
seventh capital of the whole series, counting from the pilaster
of the Vine angle inclusive, as in the series of the lower
arcade. The forty-eighth, forty-ninth, and fiftieth are bad
work, but they are old ; the fifty-first is the first Renaissance
capital of the upper arcade : the first new lion's head with
smooth ears, cut in the time of Foscari, is over the fiftieth
capital ; and that capital, with its shaft, stands on the apex
3G8 .SECOND PERIOD.
of the eighth arch from the Sea, on the Piazzetta side, of which
one spandril is masonry of the fourteenth and the other of the
fifteenth century.
§ cxxx. The reader who is not able to examine the build-
ing on the spot may be surprised at the definiteness with
which the point of junction is ascertainable ; but a glance at
the lowest range of leaves in the opposite Plate (XX.) will
enable him to judge of the grounds on which the above state-
ment is made. Fig. 12 is a cluster of leaves f r om the capital
of the Four Winds; early work of the finest time. Fig. 13
is a leaf from the great Renaissance capital at the Judgment
angle, worked in imitation of the older leafage. Fig. 14 is a
leaf from one of the Renaissance capitals of the upper arcade,
which are all worked in the natural manner of the period.
It will be seen that it requires no great ingenuity to distin-
guish between such design as that of fig. 12 and that of
fig. 14.
§ cxxxi. It is very possible that the reader may at first like
fig. 14 the best. I shall endeavor, in the next chapter, to
show why he should not; but it must also be noted, that
fig. 12 has lost, and fig. 14 gained, both largely, under the
hands of the engraver. All the bluntness and coarseness of
feeling in the workmanship of fig. 14 have disappeared on
this small scale, and all the subtle refinements in the broad
masses of fig. 12 have vanished. They could not, indeed, be
rendered in line engraving, unless by the hand of Albert
Durer; and I have, therefore, abandoned, for the present, all
endeavor to represent any more important mass of the early
sculpture of the Ducal Palace : but I trust that, in a few
months, casts of many portions will be within the reach of the
inhabitants of London, and that they will be able to judge for
themselves of their perfect, pure, unlabored naturalism ; the
freshness, elasticity, and softness of their leafage, united with
the most noble symmetry and severe reserve, — no running to
waste, no loose or experimental lines, no extravagance, and no
weakness. Their design is always sternly architectural ; there
is none of the wilduess or redundance of natural vegetation.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 369
but there is all the strength, freedom, and tossing flow of the
breathing leaves, and all the undulation of their surfaces,
rippled, as they grew, by the summer winds, as the sands are
by the sea.
§ cxxxii. This early sculpture of the Ducal Palace, then
represents the state of Gothic work in Venice at its central
and proudest period, i.e. circa 1350. After this time, all is
decline, — of what nature and by what steps, we shall inquire
in the ensuing chapter ; for as this investigation, though still
referring to Gothic architecture, introduces us to the first
symptoms of the Renaissance influence, I have considered it as
properly belonging to the third division of our subject.
§ cxxxni. And as, under the shadow of these nodding
leaves, we bid farewell to the great Gothic spirit, here also we
may cease our examination of the details of the Ducal Palace •
for above its upper arcade there are only the four traceried
windows,* and one or two of the third order on the Rio
Facade, which can be depended upon as exhibiting the original
.workmanship of the older palace. I examined the capitals of
ithe four other windows on the facade, and of those on the
Piazzetta, one by one, with great care, and I found them all
pto be of far inferior workmanship to those which retain their
traceries: I believe the stone framework of these windows
'inust have been so cracked and injured by the flames of the
great fire, as to render it necessary to replace it by new
itraceries; and that the present mouldings and capitals are base
imitations of the original ones. The traceries were at first,
however, restored in their complete form, as the holes for the
bolts which fastened the bases of their shafts are still to be
seen in the window-sills, as well as the marks of the inner
mouldings on the soffits. How much the stone facing of the
facade, the parapets, and the shafts and niches of the angles,
retain of their original masonry, it is also impossible to deter-
* Some further details respecting these portions, as well as some necessary
confirmations of my statements of dates, are, however, given in Appendix 1,
Vol. III. I feared wearying the general reader by introducing them into
the text*
370 SECOXD PERIOD.
mine ; but there is nothing in the workmanship of any of them
demanding especial notice ; still less in the large central win-
dows on each facade, which are entirely of Renaissance execu-
tion. All that is admirable in these portions of the building
is the disposition of their various parts and masses, which is
without doubt the same as in the original fabric, and calculated,
when seen from a distance, to produce the same impression.
§ cxxxiv. Kot so in the interior. All vestige of the earlier
modes of decoration was here, of course, destroyed by the
fires ; and the severe and religious work of Guariento and
Bellini has been replaced by the wildness of Tintoret and the
luxury of Veronese. But in this case, though widely different
in temper, the art of the renewal was at least intellectually as
great as that which had perished : and though the halls of the
Ducal Palace are no more representative of the character of
the men by whom it was built, each of them is still a colossal
casket of priceless treasure; a treasure whose safety has till
now depended on its being despised, and which at this moment,
and as I write, is piece by piece being destroyed for evev.
§ cxxxv. The reader will forgive my quitting our more
immediate subject, in order briefly to explain the causes and
the nature of this destruction ; for the matter is simply the
most important of all that can be brought under our present
consideration respecting the state of art in Europe.
The fact is, that the greater number of persons or societies
throughout Europe, whom wealth, or chance, or inheritance
has put in possession of valuable pictures, do not know a good
picture from a bad one,* and have no idea in what the value
of a picture really consists. The reputation of certain works
is raised, partly by accident, partly by the just testimony of
artists, partly by the various and generally bad taste of the
* Many persons, capable of quickly sympathizing with any excellence,
when once pointed out to them, easily deceive themselves into the supposi-
tion that they are judges of art. There is only one real test of such power
of judgment. Can they, at a glance, discover a good picture obscured by the
filth, and confused among the rubbish, of the pawnbroker's or dealer's
garret?
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 371
public (no picture, that I know of, has ever, in modern times,
attained popularity, in the full sense of the term, without hav-
ing some exceedingly bad qualities mingled with its good
ones), and when this reputation has once been completely
established, it little matters to what state the picture may be
reduced : few minds are so completely devoid of imagination
as to be unable to invest it with the beauties which they have
heard attributed to it.
§ cxxxvi. This being so, the pictures that are most valued
are for the most part those by masters of established renown,
which are highly or neatly finished, and of a size small enough
to admit of their being placed in galleries or saloons, so as to
be made subjects of ostentation, and to be easily seen by a
crowd. For the support of the fame and value of such pic-
tures, little more is necessary than that they should be kept
bright, partly by cleaning, which is incipient destruction, and
partly by what is called " restoring," that is, painting over,
which is of course total destruction. Nearly all the gallery
pictures in modern Europe have been more or less destroyed
"by one or other of these operations, generally exactly in pro-
portion to the estimation in which they are held ; and as,
originally, the smaller and more highly finished works of any
great master are usually his worst, the contents of many of
our most celebrated galleries are by this time, in reality, of
very small value indeed.
§ cxxxvii. On the other hand, the most precious works of
any noble painter are usually those which have been done
quickly, and in the heat of the first thought, on a large scale,
for places where there was little likelihood of their being well
seen, or for patrons from whom there was little prospect of
rich remuneration. In general, the best things are done in
this way, or else in the enthusiasm and pride of accomplishing
some great purpose, such as painting a cathedral or a campo-
santo from one end to the other, especially when the time has
been short, and circumstances disadvantageous.
§ cxxxvin. Works thus executed are of course despised, on
account of their quantity, as well as their frequent slightness.
372 <SECOXD PERIOD.
in the places where they exist; and they are too large to
be portable, and too vast and comprehensive to be read on
the spot, in the hasty temper of the present age. They are,
therefore, almost universally neglected, whitewashed by cus-
todes, shot at by soldiers, suffered to drop from the walls
piecemeal in powder and rags by society in general ; but,
which is an advantage more than counterbalancing all this
evil, they are not often "restored." "What is left of them,
however fragmentary, however ruinous, however obscured and
defiled, is almost always the real thing ; there are no fresh
readings : and therefore the greatest treasures of art which
Europe at this moment possesses are pieces of old plaster on
ruinous brick walls, where the lizards burrow and bask, and
which few other living creatures ever approach ; and torn
sheets of dim canvas, in waste corners of churches ; and
mildewed stains, in the shape of human figures, on the walls
of dark chambers, which now and then an exploring traveller
causes to be unlodked by their tottering custode, looks hastily
round, and retreats from in a weary satisfaction at his accom-
plished duty.
§ cxxxix. Many of the pictures on the ceilings and wall?
of the Ducal Palace, by Paul Veronese and Tintoret, have
been more or less reduced, by neglect, to this condition.
Unfortunately they are not altogether without reputation, and
their state has drawn the attention of the Venetian authorities
and academicians. It constantly happens, that public bodies
who will not pay five pounds to preserve a picture, will pay
fifty to repaint it :* and when I was at Venice in 1846, there
were two remedial operations carrying on, at one and the
same time, in the two Buildings which contain the pictures of
* This is easily explained. There are, of course, in everyplace and at all
periods, bad painters who conscientiously believe that they can improve
every picture they touch ; and these men are generally, in their presumption,
the most influential over the innocence, whether of monarchs or municipal-
ities. The carpenter and slater have little influence in recommending the
repairs of the roof; but the bad painter has great influence, as well as inter-
est, in recommending those of the picture.
VIII. THE DUCAL PALACE. 373
greatest value in the city (as pieces of color, of greatest value
in the world), curiously illustrative of this peculiarity in
human nature. Buckets were set on the floor of the Scuola
di San Rocco, in every shower, to catch the rain which came
through the pictures of Tintoret on the ceiling ; while in the
Ducal Palace, those of Paul Veronese were themselves laid
on the floor to be repainted ; and I was myself present at the
re-illumination of the breast of a white horse, with a brush, at
the end of a stick five feet long, luxuriously dipped in a com-
mon house-painter's vessel of paint.
This was, of course, a large picture. The process has
already been continued in an equally destructive, though
somewhat more delicate manner, over the whole of the hum-
bler canvases on the ceiling of the Sala del Gran Consiglio ;
and I heard it threatened when I was last in Venice (1851-2)
to the " Paradise " at its extremity, which is yet in tolerable
condition, — the largest work of Tintoret, and the most won-
derful piece of pure, manly, and masterly oil-painting in the
world.
§ CXL. I leave these facts to the consideration of the Eu-
ropean patrons of art. Twenty years hence they will be
acknowledged and regretted ; at present, 1 am well aware,
that it is of little use to bring them forward, except only to
explain the present impossibility of stating what pictures are,
and what were, in the interior of the Ducal Palace. I can
only say, that in the winter of 1851, the " Paradise" of Tin-
toret was still comparatively uninjured, and that the Camera
di Collegio, and its antechamber, and the Sala de' Pregadi
were full of pictures by Veronese and Tintoret, that made
their walls as precious as so many kingdoms ; so precious
indeed, and so full of majesty, that sometimes when walking
at evening on the Lido, whence the great chain of the Alps,
crested with silver clouds, might be seen rising above the
front of the Ducal Palace, I used to feel as much awe in
gazing on the building as on the hills, and could believe that
God had done a greater work in breathing into the narrow-
374 SECOND PERIOD.
ness of dust the mighty spirits by whom its haughty walls
had been raised, and its burning legends written, than in
lifting the rocks of granite higher than the clouds of heaven,
and veiling them with their various mantle of purple flower
and shadowy pine.
APPENDIX.
1. THE GONDOLIER'S CRT.
MOST persons are now well acquainted with the general as-
pect of the Venetian gondola, but few have taken the pains to
understand the cries of warning uttered by its boatmen, al-
though those cries are peculiarly characteristic, and very im-
pressive to a stranger, and have been even very sweetly intro-
duced in poetry by Mr. Monckton Milnes. It may perhaps be
interesting to the traveller in Venice to know the general method
of management of the boat to which he owes so many happy
hours.
A gondola is in general rowed only by one man, standing at
the stern; those of the upper classes having two or more boat-
men, for greater speed and magnificence. In order to raise the
oar sufficiently, it rests, not on the side of the boat, but on a
piece of crooked timber like the branch of a tree, rising about a
foot from the boat's side, and called a "forcola." The forcola
is of different forms, according to the size and uses of the boat,
and it is always somewhat complicated in its parts and curva-
ture, allowing the oar various kinds of rests and catches on both
its sides, but perfectly free play in all cases; as the management
of the boat depends on the gondolier's being able in an instant
to place his oar in any position. The forcola is set on the right-
hand side of the boat, some six feet from the stern: the gondo-
lier stands on a little flat platform or deck behind it, and throws
nearly the entire weight of his body upon the forward stroke.
The effect of this stroke would be naturally to turn the boat's
head round to the left, as well as to send it forward; but this
tendency is corrected by keeping the blade of the oar under the
376 APPENDIX, 1.
water on the return stroke, and raising it gradually, as a full
spoon is raised out of any liquid, so that the blade emerges from
the water only an instant before it again plunges. A downward
and lateral pressure upon the forcola is thus obtained, which
entirely counteracts the tendency given by the forward stroke;
and the effort, after a little practice, becomes hardly conscious,
though, as it adds some labor to the back stroke, rowing a gon-
dola at speed is hard and breathless work, though it appears
easy and graceful to the looker-on.
If then the gondola is to be turned to the left, the forward
impulse is given without the return stroke; if it is to be turned
to the right, the plunged oar is brought forcibly up to the sur-
face; in either case a single strong stroke being enough to turn
the light and flat-bottomed boat. But as it has no keel, when
the turn is made sharply, as out of one canal into another very
narrow one, the impetus of the boat in its former direction gives
it an enormous lee-way, and it drifts laterally up against the
wall of the canal, and that so forcibly, that if it has turned at
speed, no gondolier can arrest the motion merely by strength or
rapidity of stroke of oar ; but it is checked by a strong thrust of
the foot against the wall itself, the head of the boat being of
course turned for the moment almost completely round to the
opposite wall, and greater exertion made to give it, as quickly as
possible, impulse in the new direction.
The boat being thus guided, the cry "Premi" is the order
from one gondolier to another that he should "press" or thrust
forward his oar, without the back stroke, so as to send the boat's
head round to the left; and the cry " Stall" is the order that he
should give the return or upward stroke which sends the boat's
head round to the right. Hence, if two gondoliers meet under
any circumstances which^ render it a matter of question on which
side they should pass each other, the gondolier who has at th
moment the least power over his boat, cries to the othe
" Premi," if he wishes the boats to pass with their right-han
sides to each other, and "Stali," if with their left. Now, i
turning a corner, there is of course risk of collision betwe
6oats coming from opposite sides, and warning is always clear!
and loudly given on approaching an angle of the canals. It is
of course presumed that the boat which gives the warning
APPENDIX, 1. 377
be nearer the turn than the one which receives and answers it ;
and therefore will not have so much time to check itself or alter
its course. Hence the advantage of the turn, that is, the out-
side, which allows the fullest swing and greatest room for lee-
way, is always yielded to the boat which gives warning. There-
fore, if the warning boat is going to turn to the right, as it is to
have the outside position, it will keep its own right-hand side
to the boat which it meets, and the cry of warning is therefore
" Premi," twice given; first as soon as it can be heard round
the angle, prolonged and loud, with the accent on the e, and
another strongly accented e added, a kind of question, " Pre-
mi-e," followed at the instant of turning, with "Ah Premi,"
with the accent sharp on the final i. If, on the other hand, the
warning boat is going to turn to the left, it will pass with its
left-hand side to the one it meets ; and the warning cry is,
"Stali-e, Ah Stall." Hence the confused idea in the mind of
the traveller that Stali means "to the left," and "Premi" to
the right ; while they mean, in reality, the direct reverse ; the
Stali, for instance, being the order to the unseen gondolier who
may be behind the corner, coming from the left-hand side, that
he should hold as much as possible to his own right; this being
the only safe order for him, whether he is going to turn the cor-
ner himself, or to go straight on; for as the warning gondola
will always swing right across the canal in turning, a collision
with it is only to be avoided by keeping well within it, and close
up to the corner which it turns.
There are several other cries necessary in the management
of the gondola, but less frequently, so that the reader will hardly
care for their interpretation; except only the " sciar," which is
the order to the opposite gondolier to stop the boat as suddenly
as possible by slipping his oar in front of the forcola. The cry
is never heard except when the boatmen have got into some un-
expected position, involving a risk of collision; but the action
is seen constantly, when the gondola is rowed by two or more
men (for if performed by the single gondolier it only swings the
boat's head sharp round to the right), in bringing up at a
landing-place, especially when there is any intent of display, the
boat being first urged to its full speed and then stopped with as
much foam about the oar-blades as possible, the effect being
378 APPENDIX, 2, 3.
much like that of stopping a horse at speed by pulling him on
his haunches.
2. OUR LADY OF SALVATION".
"Santa Maria della Salute," Our Lady of Health, or of
Safety, would be a more literal translation, yet not perhaps
fully expressing the force of the Italian word in this case. Th6
church was built between 1630 and 1680, in acknowledgment of
the cessation of the plague ; — of course to the Virgin, to whom
the modern Italian has recourse in all his principal distresses,
and who receives his gratitude for all principal deliverances.
The hasty traveller is usually enthusiastic in his admiration
of this building ; but there is a notable lesson to be derived
from it, which is not often read. On the opposite side of the
broad canal of the Giudecca is a small church, celebrated among
Renaissance architects as of Palladian design, but which would
hardly attract the notice of the general observer, unless on
account of the pictures by John Bellini which it contains, in
order to see which the traveller may perhaps remember having
been taken across the Giudecca to the Church of the "Reden-
tore." But he ought carefully to compare these two buildings
with each other, the one built "to the Virgin," the other "to
the Redeemer" (also a votive offering after the cessation of the
plague of 1576); the one, the most conspicuous church in
Venice, its dome, the principal one by which she is first dis-
cerned, rising out of the distant sea: the other, small and con-
temptible, on a suburban island, and only becoming an object
of interest because it contains three small pictures ! For in the
relative magnitude and conspicuousness of these two buildings,
we have an accurate index of the relative importance of the ideas
of the Madonna and of Christ, in the modern Italian mind.
Some further account of this church is given in the final
Index to the Venetian buildings at the close of the thi
Volume.
3. TIDES OF VENICE, AND MEASURES AT TORCELLO.
The lowest and highest tides take place in Venice at different
periods, the lowest during the winter, the highest in the sum-
APPENDIX, 3. 379
mer and autumn. During the period of the highest tides, the
city is exceedingly beautiful, especially if, as is not unfrequently
the case, the .water rises high enough partially to flood St.
Mark's Place. Nothing can be more lovely or fantastic than
the scene, when the Campanile and the Golden Church are
reflected in the calm water, and the lighter gondolas floating
under the very porches of the faqade. On the other hand, a
winter residence in Venice is rendered peculiarly disagreeable by
the low tides, which sometimes leave the smaller canals entirely
dry, and large banks of mud beneath the houses, along the
borders of even the Grand Canal. The difference between the
levels of the highest and lowest tides I saw in Venice was 6 ft. 3
in. The average fall rise is from two to three feet.
The measures of Torcello were intended for Appendix 4;
but having by a misprint referred the reader to Appendix 3, I
give them here. The entire breadth of the church within the
walls is 70 feet; of which the square bases of the pillars, 3 feet
on each side, occupy 6 feet; and the nave, from base to base,
measures 31 ft. 1 in. ; the aisles from base to wall, 16 feet odd
inches, not accurately ascertainable on account of the modern
wainscot fittings. The intervals between the bases of the pillars
are 8 feet each, increasing towards the altar to 8 ft. 3 in., in
order to allow for a corresponding diminution in the diameter
of the bases from 3 ft. to 2 ft. 11 in. or 2 ft. 10. in. This
subtle diminution of the bases is in order to prevent the eye
from feeling the greater narrowness of the shafts in that part of
the nave, their average circumference being 6 ft. 10 in.; and
one, the second on the north side, reaching 7 feet, while those
at the upper end of the nave vary from 6 ft. 8 in. to 6 ft. 4 in.
It is probable that this diminution in the more distant pillars
adds slightly to the perspective effect of length in the body of
the church, as it is seen from the great entrance: but whether
this was the intention or not, the delicate adaptation of this
diminished base to the diminished shaft is a piece of fastidious-
ness in proportion which I rejoice in having detected; and this the
more, because the rude contours of the bases themselves would
little induce the spectator to anticipate any such refinement.
380 APPENDIX, 4, 5.
4. DATE OF THE DUOMO OF TORCELLO.
The first flight to the lagoons for shelter was caused by the
invasion of Attila in the fifth century, so that in endeavoring to
throw back the thought of the reader to the former solitude of
the islands, I spoke of them as they must have appeared " 1300
years ago." Altinum, however, was not finally destroyed till the
Lombard invasion in 641, when the episcopal seat was removed
to Torcello, and the inhabitants of the mainland city, giving up
all hope of returning to their former homes, built their Duomo
there. It is a disputed point among Venetian antiquarians,
whether the present church be that which was built in the
seventh century, partially restored in 1008, or whether the words
of Sagornino, "ecclesiam jam vetustate consumptam recreare,"
justify them in assuming an entire rebuilding of the fabric. I
quite agree with the Marchese Selvatico, in believing the pres-
ent church to be the earlier building, variously strengthened,
refitted, and modified by subsequent care ; but, in all its main
features, preserving its original aspect, except, perhaps, in the
case of the pulpit and chancel screen, which, if the Chevalier
Bunsen's conclusions respecting early pulpits in the Roman
basilicas be correct (see the next article of this Appendix), may
possibly have been placed in their present position in the tenth
century, and the fragmentary character of the workmanship of
the latter, noticed in §§ x. and XL, would in that case have
been the result of innovation, rather than of haste. The ques-
tion, however, whether they are of the seventh or eleventh cen-
tury, does not in the least affect our conclusions, drawn from
the design of these portions of the church, respecting pulpits in
general.
5. MODERN PULPITS.
There is no character of an ordinary modern English church
which appears to me more to be regretted than the peculiar
pompousness of the furniture of the pulpits, contrasted, as it
generally is, with great meagreness and absence of color in the
other portions of the church; a pompousness, besides, altogether
without grace or meaning, and dependent merely on certaii
applications of upholstery ; which, curiously enough, are ahva}
APPENDIX, 5. 381
in worse taste than even those of oar drawing-rooms. Nor do I
understand how our congregations can endure the aspect of the
wooden sounding-board attached only by one point of its cir-
cumference to an upright pillar behind the preacher; and look-
ing as if the weight of its enormous leverage must infallibly,
before the sermon is concluded, tear it from its support, and
bring it down upon the preacher's head. These errors in taste
and feeling will however, I believe, be gradually amended as
more Gothic churches are built ; but the question of the position
of the pulpit presents a more disputable ground of discussion.
I can perfectly sympathise with the feeling of those who wish
the eastern extremity of the church to form a kind of holy place
for the communion table ; nor have I often received a more
painful impression than on seeing the preacher at the Scotch
church in George Street, Portman Square, taking possession of
a perfect apse; and occupying therein, during the course of the
service, very nearly the same position which the figure of Christ
does in that of the Cathedral of Pisa. But I nevertheless be-
lieve that the Scotch congregation are perfectly right, and have
restored the real arrangement of the primitive churches. The
Chevalier Bunsen informed me very lately, that, in all the early
basilicas he has examined, the lateral pulpits are of more recent
date than the rest of the building ; that he knows of none placed
in the position which they now occupy, both in the basilicas and
Gothic cathedrals, before the ninth century ; and that there can
be no doubt that the bishop always preached or exhorted, in the
primitive times, from his throne in the centre of the apse, the
altar being always set at the centre of the church, in the cross-
ing of the transepts. His Excellency found by experiment in
Santa Maria Maggiore, the largest of the Roman basilicas, that
the voice could be heard more plainly from the centre of the
apse than from any other spot in the whole church; and, if this
be so, it will be another very important reason for the adoption
of the Romanesque (or Norman) architecture in our churches,
rather than of the Gothic. The reader will find some farther
notice of this question in the concluding chapter of the third
volume.
Before leaving this subject, however, I must be permitted to
PHY one word to those members of the Scotch Church who are
382 APPENDIX, 6.
severe in their requirement of the nominal or apparent extem-
porization of all addresses delivered from the pulpit. Whether
they do right in giving those among their ministers who cannot
preach extempore, the additional and useless labor of commit-
ting their sermons to memory, may be a disputed question; but
it can hardly be so, that the now not unfrequent habit of mak-
ing a desk of the Bible, and reading the sermon stealthily, by
slipping the sheets of it between the sacred leaves, so that the
preacher consults his own notes on pretence of consulting the
Scriptures, is a very unseemly consequence of their over-strict-
ness.
6. APSE OF MURAXO.
The following passage succeeded in the original text to §xv.
of Chap. III. Finding it not likely to interest the general
reader, I have placed it here, as it contains matter of some in-
terest to architects.
"On this plinth, thus carefully studied in relations of mag-
nitude, the shafts are set at the angles, as close to each other as
possible, as seen in the ground-plan. These shafts are founded
on pure Roman tradition ; their bases have no spurs, and the
shaft itself is tapered in a bold curve, according to the classical
model. But, in the adjustment of the bases to each other, we
have a most curious instance of the first beginning of the Gothic
principle of aggregation of shafts. They have a singularly
archaic and simple profile, composed of a single cavetto and roll,
which are circular, on a square plinth. Now when these bases
are brought close to each other at the angles of the apse, their
natural position would be as in fig. 3, Plate I., leaving an awk-
ward fissure between the two square plinths. This offended the
architect's eye ; so he cut part of each of the bases away, and
fitted them close to each other, as in fig. 5, Plate L, which is
their actual position. As before this piece of rough harmoniza-
tion the circular mouldings reached the sides of the squares,
they were necessarily cut partly away in the course of the adjust-
ment, and run into each other as in the figure, so as to give us
one of the first Venetian instances of the continuous Gothic
base.
APPENDIX, 7. 383
"The shafts measure on the average 2, ft. 8£ in. in circum-
ference, at the base, tapering so much that under the lowest
fillet of their necks they measure only 2 feet round, though their
height is only 5 ft. 6 in., losing thus eight inches of girth in
five feet and a half of height. They are delicately curved all
the way up ; and are 2£ in. apart from each other where they
are nearest, and about 5 in. at the necks of their capitals."
7. EARLY VENETIAN DRESS.
Sansovino's account of the changes in the dress of the Vene-
tians is brief, masterly, and full of interest ; one or two passages
&re deserving of careful notice, especially the introductory sen-
tence. "For the Venetians from their first origin, having
made it their aim to be peaceful and religious, and to keep on
an equality with one another, that equality might induce sta-
bility and concord (as disparity produces confusion and ruin),
made their dress a matter of conscience, . . . ; and our
ancestors, observant lovers of religion, upon which all their acts
were founded, and desiring that their young men should direct
themselves to virtue, the true soul of all human action, and
above all to peace, invented a dress conformable to their gravity,
such, that in clothing themselves with it, they might clothe
themselves also with modesty and honor. And because their
mind was bent upon giving no offence to any one, and living
quietly as far as might be permitted them, it seemed good to
them to show to every one, even by external signs, this their en-
deavor, by wearing a long dress, which was in no wise convenient
for persons of a quick temperament, or of eager and fierce
spirits."
Eespecting the color of the women's dress, it is noticeable
that blue is called " Venetian color" by Cassiodorus, translated
" turchino" by Filiasi, vol. v. chap. iv. It was a very pale blue,
as the place in which the word occurs is the description by Cas-
siodorus of the darkness which came over the sun's disk at the
time of the Belisarian wars and desolation of the Gothic king-
dom.
384 APPEXDIX, 8, 9.
8. IKSCEIPTIONS AT MUBANO.
There are two other inscriptions on the border of the concha ;
but these, being written on the soffit of the face arch, which, as
before noticed, is supported by the last two shafts of the chancel,
could not be read by the congregation, and only with difficulty
by those immediately underneath them. One of them is in
black, the other in red letters. The first:
"Mutat quod sumsit, quod sollat crimina tandit
Et quod sumpsit, vultus vestisq. refulsit."
The second:
" Discipuli testes, prophete certa videntes
Et cermmt purum, sibi credunt ese futurum."
I have found no notice of any of these inscriptions in any Italian
account of the church of Murano, and have seldom seen even
Monkish Latin less intelligible. There is no mistake in the let-
ters, which are all large and clear ; but wrong letters may have
been introduced by ignorant restorers, as has often happened in
St. Mark's.
9. SHAFTS OF ST. MAKE.
The principal pillars which carry the nave and transepts,
fourteen in number, are of white alabaster veined with grey and
amber ; each of a single block, 15 ft. high, and 6 ft. 2 in. round
at the base. I in vain endeavored to ascertain their probable
value. Every sculptor whom I questioned on this subject told
me there were no such pieces of alabaster in the market, and
that they were to be considered as without price.
On the facade of the church alone are two great ranges of
shafts, seventy-two in the lower range, and seventy-nine in the
upper ; all of porphyry, alabaster, and verd-antique or fine mar-
ble ; the lower about 9 ft, the upper about 7 ft. high, and
various circumferences, from 4 ft. 6 in. to 2 ft. round.
There are now so many published engravings, and, far bett
than engravings, calotypes, of this facade, that I may point ot
one or two circumstances for the reader's consideration withoi
giving any plate of it here. And first, we ought to note tl
APPENDIX, 9. 385
relations of the shafts and wall, the latter being first sheeted
with alabaster, and then the pillars set within two or three
inches of it, forming such a grove of golden marble that the
porches open before us as we enter the church like glades in a
deep forest. The reader may perhaps at first question the
propriety of placing the wall so close behind the shafts that the
latter have nearly as little work to do as the statues in a Gothic
porch; but the philosophy of this arrangement is briefly deduci-
ble from the principles stated in the text. The builder had at
his disposal shafts of a certain size only, not fit to sustain the
whole weight of the fabric above. He therefore turns just as
much of the wall veil into shaft as he has strength of marble at
his disposal, and leaves the rest in its massive form. And that
there may be no dishonesty in this, nor any appearance in the
shafts of doing more work than is really allotted to them, many
are left visibly with half their capitals projecting beyond the
archivolts they sustain, showing that the wall is very slightly
dependent on their co-operation, and that many of them are
little more than mere bonds or connecting rods between the
foundation and cornices. If any architect ventures to blame
such an arrangement, let him look at our much vaunted early
English piers in Salisbury Cathedral or Westminster Abbey,
where the small satellitic shafts are introduced in the same
gratuitous manner, but with far less excuse or reason: for those
small shafts have nothing but their delicacy and purely theoreti-
cal connection with the archivolt mouldings to recommend
them; but the St. Mark's shafts have an intrinsic beauty and
value of the highest order, and the object of the whole system
of architecture, as above stated, is in great part to set forth the
beauty and value of the shaft itself. Now, not only is this ac-
complished by withdrawing it occasionally from servile work,
but the position here given to it, within three or four inches of
a wall from which it nevertheless stands perfectly clear all the
way up, is exactly that which must best display its color and
quality. When there is much vacant space left behind a pillar,
the shade against which it is relieved is comparatively indefinite,
the eye passes by the shaft, and penetrates into the vacancy.
But when a broad surface of wall is brought near the shaft, its
own shadow is, in almost every effect of sunshine, so sharp ami
386 APPENDIX, 9.
dark as to throw out its colors with the highest possible bril-
liancy ; if there be no sunshine, the wall veil is subdued and
varied by the most subtle gradations of delicate half shadow,
hardly less advantageous to the shaft which it relieves. And,
as far as regards pure effect in open air (all artifice of excessive
darkness or mystery being excluded), I do not know anything
whatsoever in the whole compass of the. European architecture
I have seen, which can for a moment be compared with the
quaint shade and delicate color, like that of Kembrandt and
Paul Veronese united, which the sun brings out, as his rays
move from porch to porch along the St. Mark's fa£ade.
And, as if to prove that this was indeed the builder's inten-
tion, and that he did not leave his shafts idle merely because he
did not know how to set them to work safely, there are two
pieces of masonry at the extremities of the fa9ade, which are
just as remarkable for their frank trust in the bearing power of
the shafts as the rest are for their want of confidence in them.
But, before we come to these, we must say a word or two re-
specting the second point named above, the superior position of
the shafts.
It was assuredly not in the builder's power, even had he been
so inclined, to obtain shafts high enough to sustain the whole
external gallery, as it is sustained in the nave, on one arcade.
He had, as above noticed, a supply of shafts of every sort and
size, from which he chose the largest for his nave shafts ; the
smallest were set aside for windows, jambs, balustrades, supports
of pulpits, niches, and such other services, every conceivable
size occurring in different portions of the building ; and the
middle-sized shafts were sorted into two classes, of which on the
average one was about two-thirds the length of the other, and
out of these the two stories of the fagade and sides of the church
are composed, the smallel1 shafts of course uppermost, and more
numerous than the lower, according to the ordinary laws
superimposition adopted by all the Eomanesque builders, anc
observed also in a kind of architecture quite as beautiful as anj
we are likely to invent, that of forest trees.
Nothing is more singular than the way in which this kind
superimposition (the only right one in the case of shafts)
shock a professed architect. He has been accustomed to see,
APPENDIX, 9. 387
the Renaissance designs, shaft put on the top of shaft, three or
four times over, and he thinks this quite right; but the mo-
ment he is shown a properly subdivided superimposition, in
which the upper shafts diminish in size and multiply in number,
so that the lower pillars would balance them safely even without
cement, he exclaims that it is "against law," as if he had never
seen a tree in his life.
Not that the idea of the Byzantine superimposition was taken
from trees, any more than that of Gothic arches. Both are sim-
ple compliances with laws of nature, and, therefore, approxima-
tions to the forms of nature.
There is, however, one very essential difference between tree
structure and the shaft structure in question; namely, that the
marble branches, having no vital connexion with the stem, must
be provided with a firm tablet or second foundation whereon to
stand. This intermediate plinth or tablet runs along the whole
faqade at one level, is about eighteen inches thick, and left with
little decoration as being meant for hard service. The small
porticos, already spoken of as the most graceful pieces of compo-
sition with which I am acquainted, are sustained on detached
clusters of four or five columns, forming the continuation of
those of the upper series, and each of these clusters is balanced
on one grand detached shaft ; as much trust being thus placed
in the pillars here, as is withdrawn from them elsewhere. The
northern portico has only one detached pillar at its outer angle,
which sustains three shafts and a square pilaster ; of these shafts
the one at the outer angle of the group is the thickest (so as to
balance the pilaster on the inner angle), measuring 3 ft. 2 in.
round, while the others measure only 2 ft. 10 in. and 2 ft. 11 in. ;
and in order to make this increase of diameter, and the impor-
tance of the shaft, more manifest to the eye, the old builders
made the shaft shorter as well as thicker, increasing the depth
both of its capital and the base, with what is to the thoughtless
spectator ridiculous incongruity, and to the observant one a most
beautiful expression of constructive genius. Nor is this all.
Observe : the whole strength of this angle depends on accuracy
of poise, not on breadth or strength of foundation. It is a bal-
anced, not a propped structure : if the balance fails, it must fall
instantly ; if the balance is maintained, no matter how the lower
388 APPENDIX, 10.
shaft is fastened into the ground, all will be safe. And to mark
this more definitely, the great lower shaft has a different base
from all the others of the facade, remarkably high in proportion
to the shaft, on a circular instead of a square plinth, and without
spurs, while all the other bases have spurs without exception.
Glance back at what is said of the spurs at p. 79 of the first
volume, and reflect that all expression of grasp in the foot of the
pillar is here* useless, and to be replaced by one of balance merely,
and you will feel what the old builder wanted to say to us, and
how much he desired us to follow him with our understanding
as he laid stone above stone.
And this purpose of his is hinted to us once more, even by
the position of this base in the ground plan of the foundation of
the portico ; for, though itself circular, it sustains a hexagonal
plinth set obliquely to the walls of the church, as if expressly to
mark to us that it did not matter how the base was set, so only
that the weights were justly disposed above it.
10. PROPER SENSE OF THE WORD IDOLATRY.
I do not intend, in thus applying the word " Idolatry" to cer-
tain ceremonies of Eomanist worship, to admit the propriety of
the ordinary Protestant manner of regarding those ceremonies as
distinctively idolatrous, and as separating the Romanist from the
Protestant Church by a gulf across which we must not look to
our fellow-Christians but with utter reprobation and disdain.
The Church of Rome does indeed distinctively violate the second
commandment; but the true force and weight of the sin of idol-
atry are in the violation of the first, of which we are all of us
guilty, in probably a very equal degree, considered only as mem-
bers of this or that communion, and not as Christians or unbe-
lievers. Idolatry is, both' literally and verily, not the mere bow-
ing down before sculptures, but the serving or becoming the
slave of any images or imaginations which stand between us anc
God, and it is otherwise expressed in Scripture as " walking after
the Imagination" of our own hearts. And observe also that while
at least on one occasion, we find in the Bible an indulgenc
granted to the mere external and literal violation of the secom
commandment, "When I bow mvself in the house of Rimmon,
APPENDIX, 10. 380
the Lord pardon thy servant in this thing," we find no indul-
gence in any instance, or in the slightest degree, granted to "cov-
etousness, which is idolatry" (Col. iii. 5^. no casual association
of terms, observe, but again energetically repeated in Ephesians,
v. 5, "No covetous man, who is an idolater, hath any inherit-
ance in the kingdom of Christ"); nor any to that denial of God,
idolatry in one of its most subtle forms, following so often on the
possession of that wealth against which Agur prayed so earnestly,
" Give me neither poverty nor riches, lest I be full and deny thee,-
and say, ' Who is the Lord ?' "
And in this sense, which of us is not an idolater ? Which of
us has the right, in the fulness of that better knowledge, in spite
of which he nevertheless is not yet separated from the service of
this world, to speak scornfully o"f any of his brethren, because,
in a guiltless ignorance, they have been accustomed to bow their
knees before a statue ? Which of us shall say that there may not
be a spiritual worship in their apparent idolatry, or that there is
not a spiritual idolatry in our own apparent worship ?
For indeed it is utterly impossible for one man to judge of
the feeling with which another bows down before an image.
From that pure reverence in which Sir Thomas Brown wrote, " I
can dispense with my hat at the sight of a cross, but not with a
thought of my Redeemer," to the worst superstition of the most
ignorant Romanist, there is an infinite series of subtle transi-
tions; and the point where simple reverence and the use of the
image merely to render conception more vivid, and feeling more
intense, change into definite idolatry by the attribution of Power
to the image itself, is so difficultly determinable that we cannot
be too cautious in asserting that such a change has actually taken
place in the case of any individual. Even when it is definite and
certain, we shall of tener find it the consequence of dulness of in-i
tellect than of real alienation of heart from God; and I have no
manner of doubt that half of the poor and untaught Christians
who are this day lying prostrate before crucifixes, Bambinos, and
Volto Santos, are finding more acceptance with God, than many
Protestants who idolize nothing but their own opinions or their
own interests. I believe that those who have worshipped the
thorns of Christ's crown will be found at last to have been holier
and wiser than those who worship the thorns of the world's ser-
390 APPENDIX, 10.
vice, and that to adore the nails of the cross is a less sin than
adore the hammer of the workman.
But, on the other .hand, though the idolatry of the lower 01
ders in the Romish Church may thus be frequently excusable
the ordinary subterfuges by which it is defended are not so. It
may be extenuated, but cannot be denied; and the attribution
of power to the image,* in which it consists, is not merely a form
of popular feeling, but a tenet of priestly instruction, and may
be proved, over and over again, from any book of the Romish
Church services. Take for instance the following prayer, which
occurs continually at the close of the service of the Holy Cross :
" Saincte vraye Croye aouree,
Qui du corps Dieu fu aournee
Et de sa sueur arrousee,
Et de son sane enluminee,
Par ta vertu, par ta puissance,
Defent mon corps de meschance,
Et montroie moy par ton playsir
Que vray confes puisse mourir."
" Oh holy, true, and golden Cross, which wast adorned with God's bodj
and watered with His sweat, and illuminated with His blood, by thj
healing virtue and thy power, defend my body from mischance ; anc
by thy good pleasure, let me make a good confession when I die."
There can be no possible defence imagined for the mei
terms in which this prayer and other such are couched: yet it is
always to be remembered, that in many cases they are rather
poetical effusions than serious prayers ; the utterances of imag-
inative enthusiasm, rather than of reasonable conviction: and
as such, they are rather to be condemned as illusory and ficti-
tious, than as idolatrous, nor even as such, condemned alto-
gether, for strong love and faith are often the roots of them and
* I do not like to hear Protestants speaking with gross and uncharitable
contempt even of the worship of relics. Elisha once trusted his own staff
too far ; nor can I see any reasonable ground for the scorn, or the unkind
rebuke, of those who have been taught from their youth upwards that to
hope even in the hem of the garment may sometimes be better than to
spend the living on physicians.
APPENDIX, 11. 391
the errors of affection are better than the accuracies of apathy.
But the unhappy results, among all religious sects, of the habit
of allowing imaginative and poetical belief to take the place of
deliberate, resolute, and prosaic belief, have been fully and ad-
mirably traced by the author of the " Natural History of En-
thusiasm."
11. SITUATIONS OF BYZANTINE PALACES.
(1.) The Terraced House.
The most conspicuous pile in the midmost reach of the
Grand Canal is the Casa Grimani, now the Post-Office. Letting
his boat lie by the steps of this great palace, the traveller will
see, on the other side of the canal, a building with a small ter-
race in front of it, and a little court with a door to the water,
beside the terrace. Half of the house is visibly modern, and
there is a great seam, like the edge of a scar, between it and the
ancient remnant, in which the circular bands of the Byzantine
arches will be instantly recognized. This building not having,
as far as I know, any name except that of its present proprietor,
I shall in future distinguish it simply as the Terraced House.
(2.) Casa Businello.
To the left of this edifice (looking from the Post-Office)
there is a modern palace, on the other side of which the Byzan-
tine mouldings appear again in the first and second stories of a
house lately restored. It might be thought that the shafts and
arches had been raised yesterday, the modern walls having been
deftly adjusted to them, and all appearance of antiquity, to-
gether with the ornamentation and proportions of the fabric,
having been entirely destroyed. I cannot, however, speak with
unmixed sorrow of these changes, since, without his being im-
plicated in the shame of them, they fitted this palace to become
the residence of the kindest friend I had in Venice. It is gen-
erally known as the Casa Businello.
392 APPENDIX, 11.
(3.) The Braided House.
Leaving the steps of the Casa Grimani, and turning the gon-
dola away from the Rialto, we will pass the Casa Businello, and
the three houses which succeed it on the right. The fourth is
another restored palace, white and conspicuous, but retaining of
its ancient structure only the five windows in its second story,
and an ornamental moulding above them which appears to be
ancient, though it is inaccessible without scaffolding, and I can-
not therefore answer for it. But the five central windows are
very valuable ; and as their capitals differ from most that we
find (except in St. Mark's), in their plaited or braided border
and basket-worked sides, I shall call this house, in future, the
Braided House.*
(4.) The Madonnetta House.
On the other side of this palace is the Traghetto called
"Delia Madonnetta;" and beyond this Traghetto, still facing
the Grand Canal, a small palace, of which the front shows mere
vestiges of arcades, the old shafts only being visible, with ob-
scure circular seams in the modern plaster which covers the
arches. The side of it is a curious agglomeration of pointed
and round windows in every possible position, and of nearly
every date from the twelfth to the eighteenth century. It is
the smallest of the buildings we have to examine, but by no
means the least interesting : I shall call it, from the name of its
Traghetto, the Madonnetta House.
(5. ) Thet Rio Foscari House.
We must now descend the Grand Canal as far as the Palazzo
Poscari, and enter the narrower canal, called the Eio di
Foscari, at the side of that palace. Almost immediately afte
passing the great gateway of the Foscari courtyard, we shall se
on our left, in the ruinous and time-stricken walls which tottc
over the water, the white curve of a circular arch covered witl
* Casa Tiepolo (?) in Lazari's Guide.
APPENDIX, 11. 393
sculpture, and fragments of the bases of small pillars, entangled
among festoons of the Erba della Madonna. I have already, in
the folio plates which accompanied the first volume, partly illus-
trated this building, In what references I have to make to it
here, I shall speak of it as the Kio Foscari House.
(6.) Casa Farsetti.
We have now to reascend the Grand Canal, and approach the
Rialto. As soon as we have passed the Casa Grimani, the trav-
eller will recognize, on his right, two rich and extensive masses
of building, which form important objects in almost every
picturesque view of the noble bridge. Of these, the first, that
farthest from the Rialto, retains great part of its ancient mate-
rials in a dislocated form. It has been entirely modernized in
its upper stories, but the ground floor and first floor have nearly
all their original shafts and capitals, only they have been shifted
hither and thither to give room for the introduction of various
small apartments, and present, in consequence, marvellous
anomalies in proportion. This building is known in Venice as
the Casa Farsetti.
(7.) Casa Loredan.
The one next to it, though not conspicuous, and often passed
with neglect, will, I believe, be felt at last, by all who examine
it carefully, to be the most beautiful palace in the whole extent
of the Grand Canal. It has been restored often, once in the
Gothic, once in the Renaissance times, — some writers say, even
rebuilt ; but, if so, rebuilt in its old form. The Gothic additions
harmonize exquisitely with its Byzantine work, and it is easy,
as we examine its lovely central arcade, to forget the Renais-
sance additions which encumber it above. It is known as the
Casa Loredan.
The eighth palace is the Fondaco de' Turchi, described in
the text. A ninth existed, more interesting apparently than
any of these, near the Church of San Moise, but it was thrown
down in the course of "improvements" a few years ago. A
woodcut of it is given in M. Lazari's Guide.
394 APPENDIX, 12.
12. MODERN PAINTING ON GLASS.
Of all the various principles of art which, in modern days,
we have defied or forgotten, none are more indisputable, and
few of more practical importance than this, which I shall have
occasion again and again to allege in support of many future
deductions :
" All art, working with given materials, must propose to itself
the objects which, with those materials, are most perfectly
attainable ; and becomes illegitimate and debased if it propose
to itself any other objects, better attainable with other ma-
terials."
Thus, great slenderness, lightness, or intricacy of structure,
— as in ramifications of trees, detached folds of drapery, or
wreaths of hair, — is easily and perfectly expressible in metal-
work or in painting, but only with great difficulty and imper-
fectly expressible in sculpture. All sculpture, therefore, which
professes as its chief end the expression of such characters, is
debased; and if the suggestion of them be accidentally required
of it, that suggestion is only to be given to an extent compatible
with perfect ease of execution in the given material, — not to the
utmost possible extent. For instance : some of the most de-
lightful drawings of our own water-color painter, Hunt, have
been of birds' nests ; of which, in painting, it is perfectly possi-
ble to represent the intricate fibrous or mossy structure ; there-
fore, the effort is a legitimate one, and the art is well employed.
But to carve a bird's nest out of marble would be physically im-
possible, and to reach any approximate expression of its struc-
ture would require prolonged and intolerable labor. Therefore,
all sculpture which set itself to carving birds' nests as an end,
or which, if a bird's nest were required of it, carved it to the
utmost possible point of realization, would be debased. Xoth-
ing but the general form, and as much of the fibrous structure
as could be with perfect ease represented, ought to be attempted
at all.
But more than this. The workman has not done his dut
and is not working on safe principles, unless he even so fa
honors the materials with which he is working as to set himsel
APPENDIX, 12. 395
to bring out their beauty, and to recommend and exalt, as far
as he can, their peculiar qualities. If he is working in marble,
he should insist upon and exhibit its transparency and solidity ;
if in iron, its strength and tenacity ; if in gold, its ductility ;
and he will invariably find the material grateful, and that his
work is all the nobler for being eulogistic of the substance of
which it is made. But of all the arts, the working of glass is
that in which we ought to keep these principles most vigorously
in mind. For we owe it so inu,ch, and the possession of it is so
great a blessing, that all our work in it should be completely
and forcibly expressive of the peculiar characters which give it
so vast a value.
These are two, namely, its DUCTILITY when heated, and
TRANSPARENCY when cold, both nearly perfect. In its employ-
ment for vessels, we ought always to exhibit its ductility, and
in its employment for windows, its transparency. All work in
glass is bad which does not, with loud voice, proclaim one or
other of- these great qualities.
Consequently, all cut glass is barbarous: for the cutting con-
ceals its ductility, and confuses it with crystal. Also, all very
neat, finished, and perfect form in glass is barbarous : for this
fails in proclaiming another of its great virtues ; namely, the
ease with which its light substance can be moulded or blown
into any form, so long as perfect accuracy be not required. In
metal, which, even when heated enough to be thoroughly malle-
able, retains yet such weight and consistency as render it sus-
ceptible of the finest handling and retention of the most deli-
cate form, great precision of workmanship is admissible; but in
glass, which when once softened must be blown or moulded,
not hammered, and which is liable to lose, by contraction or
subsidence, the fineness of the forms given to it, no delicate
outlines are to be attempted, but only such fantastic and fickle
grace as the mind of the workman can conceive and execute on
the instant. The more wild, extravagant, and grotesque in
their gracefulness the forms are, the better. No material is so
adapted for giving full play to the imagination, but it must not
be wrought with refinement or painfulness, still less with costli-
ness. For as in gratitude we are to proclaim its virtues, so in
all honesty we are to confess its imperfections ; and while we
396 APPENDIX, 12.
triumphantly set forth its transparency, we are also frankly to
admit its fragility, and therefore not to waste much time upon
it, nor put any real art into it when intended for daily use. No
workman ought ever to spend more than an hour in the making
of any glass vessel.
Next in the case of windows, the points which we have to
insist upon are, the transparency of the glass and its suscepti-
bility of the most brilliant colors; and therefore the attempt to
turn painted windows into pretty pictures is one of the most
gross and ridiculous barbarisms of this pre-eminently barbarous
century. It originated, I suppose, with the Germans, who seem
for the present distinguished among European nations by the
loss of the sense of color; but it appears of late to have consid-
erable chance of establishing itself in England : and it is a two-
edged error, striking in two directions; first at the healthy
appreciation of painting, and then at the healthy apprecia-
tion of glass. Color, ground with oil, and laid on a solid
opaque ground, furnishes to the human hand the most ex-
quisite means of expression which the human sight and inven-
tion can find or require. By its two opposite qualities, each
naturally and easily attainable, of transparency in shadow and
opacity in light, it complies with the conditions of nature ;
and by its perfect governableness it permits the utmost possible
fulness and subtlety in the harmonies of color, as well as the
utmost perfection in the drawing. Glass, considered as a ma-
terial for a picture, is exactly as bad as oil paint is good. It
sets out by reversing the conditions of nature, by making the
lights transparent and the shadows opaque; and the ungovern-
ableness of its color (changing in the furnace), and its violence
(being always on a high key, because produced by actual light),
render it so disadvantageous in every way, that the result of
working in it for pictorial effect would infallibly be the destruc-
tion of all the appreciation of the noble qualities of pictorial
color.
In the second place, this modern barbarism destroys the t
appreciation of the qualities of glass. It denies, and endeavors
as far as possible to conceal, the transparency, which is not only
its great virtue in a merely utilitarian point of view, but i
great spiritual character ; the character by which in church
APPENDIX, 12. 397
chitecture it becomes most touchingly impressive, as typical of
the entrance of the Holy Spirit into the heart of man ; a typical
expression rendered specific and intense by the purity and bril-
liancy of its sevenfold hues; * and therefore in endeavoring to
turn the window into a picture, we at once lose the sanctity and
power of the noble material, and employ it to an end which is
utterly impossible it should ever worthily attain. The true per-
fection of a painted window is to be serene, intense, brilliant,
like flaming jewellery ; full of easily legible and quaint subjects,
and exquisitely subtle, yet simple, in its harmonies. In a word,
this perfection has been consummated in the designs, never to
be surpassed, if ever again to be approached by human art, of
tho French windows of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
* I do not think that there is anything more necessary to the progress
of European art in the present day than the complete understanding of this
sanctity of Color. I had much pleasure in finding it, the other day, fully
understood and thus sweetly expressed in a little volume of poems by r,
MissMaynard: .
" For still in every land, though to Thy name
Arose no temple, — still in every age,
Though heedless man had quite forgot Thy praise,
We praised Thee ; and at rise and set of sun
Did we assemble duly, and intone
A choral hymn that all the lands might hear.
In heaven, on earth, and in the deep we praised Thee,
Singly, or mingled in sweet sisterhood.
But now, acknowledged ministrants, we come,
Co-worshippers with man in this Thy house,
We, the Seven Daughters of the Light, to praise
Thee, Light of Light 1 Thee, God of very God !"
A Dream of Pair Colors.
These poems seem to be otherwise remarkable for a very unobtrusive
and pure religious feeling in subjects connected with art.
THE
STONES OF VENICE,
VOLUME THE THIRD.
BY JOSH RUSKIlSr,
AUTHOR OF "THE SEVEN LAMPS OF ARCHITECTURE," "MODERN PAINTERS," ETC., ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
NEW YORK:
JOHN WILEY AND SONS,
53 EA.ST TENTH STREET,
Second door west of Broadway.
1891.
CONTENTS,
THIRD, OR RENAISSANCE, PERIOD.
CHAPTER L
PAGB
Early Renaissance, . . . . . , . .1
CHAPTER II
Roman Renaissance, ....... 8ft
CHAPTER III
Grotesque Renaissance, . . . . . . .112
CHAPTER IV.
Conclusion, ........ 166
APPENDIX.
1. Architect of the Ducal Palace, . . . . 199
2. Theology of Spenser, ... ... 205
8. Austrian Government in Italy, , . . , 209
4. Date of the Palaces of the Byzantine Renaissance, . • . 211
5. Renaissance Side of Ducal Palace, ..... 219
6. Character of the Doge Michele Morosini, . . . 213
7. Modern Education, . . . . . .214
IV CONTENTS.
.1
PAGE
8. Early Venetian Marriages, • . « » . 222
9. Character of the Venetian Aristocracy, .... 223
10. Final Appendix, ....... 224
' INDICES.
I. Personal Index, »>^ . . . . t , 263
II. Local Index, ....... 268
III. Topical Index, •••••.. 271
IV. Venetian Index, ...«,« 287
THE
STORES OF VENICE,
THIRD, OR RENAISSANCE, PERIOD.
CHAPTER I-
EAKLY RENAISSANCE.
§ i. I TRUST that the reader has been enabled, by the pre-
ceding chapters, to form some conception of the magnificence
of the streets of Yenice during the course of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries. Yet by all this magnificence she
was not supremely distinguished above the other cities of the
middle ages. Her early edifices have been preserved to our
times by the circuit of her waves ; while continual recurrences
of ruin have defaced the glory of her sister cities. But such
fragments as are still left in their lonely squares, and in the
corners of their streets, so far from being inferior to the build-
ings of Yenice, are even more rich, more finished, more ad-
mirable in invention, more exuberant in beauty. And al-
though, in the North of Europe, civilization was less advanced,
and the knowledge of the arts was more confined to the ecclesi-
astical orders, so that, for domestic architecture, the period of
perfection must be there placed much later than in Italy, and
considered as extending to the middle of the fifteenth cen-
tury ; yet, as each city reached a certain point in civilization,
its streets became decorated with the same magnificence, varied
2 THIRD PERIOD.
only in style according to the materials at hand, and temper
of the people. And I am not aware of any town of wealth
and importance in the middle ages, in which some proof does
not exist, that, at its period of greatest energy and prosperity,
its streets were inwrought with rich sculpture, and even
(though in this, as before noticed, Yenice always stood
supreme) glowing with color and with gold. Now, there-
fore, let the reader, — forming for himself as vivid and real a
conception as he is able, either of a group of Venetian palaces
in the fourteenth century, or, if he likes better, of one of the
more fantastic but even richer street scenes of Rouen, Ant-
werp, Cologne, or Nuremberg, and keeping this gorgeous
image before him, — go out into any thoroughfare, representa-
tive, in a general and characteristic way, of the feeling for
domestic architecture in modern times ; let him, for instance,
if in London, walk once up and down Harley Street, or Baker
Street, or Gower Street ; and then, looking upon this picture
and on this, set himself to consider (for this is to be the sub-
ject of our following and final inquiry) what have been the
causes which have induced so vast a change in the European
mind.
§ n. Renaissance architecture is the school which has con-
ducted men's inventive and constructive faculties from the
Grand Canal to Gower Street ; from the marble shaft, and the
lancet arch, and the wreathed leafage, and the glowing and
melting harmony of gold and azure, to the square cavity in
the brick wall. We have now to consider the causes and the
steps of this change ; and, as we endeavored above to investi-
gate the nature of Gothic, here to investigate also the nature
of Renaissance.
§ m. Although Renaissance architecture assumes very dif-
ferent forms among different nations, it may be conveniently
referred to three heads : — Early Renaissance, consisting of the
first corruptions introduced into the Gothic schools : Centi
or Roman Renaissance, which is the perfectly formed style ;
and Grotesque Renaissance, which is the corruption of the
Renaissance itself.
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 3
§ iv. Now, in order to do full justice to the adverse cause,
we will consider the abstract nature of the school with refer-
ence only to its best or central examples. The forms of build-
ing which must be classed generally under the term early
Renaissance are, in many cases, only the extravagances and
corruptions of the languid Gothic, for whose errors the classi-
cal principle is in no wise answerable. It was stated in the
second chapter of the " Seven Lamps," that, unless luxury had
enervated and subtlety falsified the Gothic forms, Eoman
traditions could not have prevailed against them; and, al-
though these enervated and false conditions are almost in-
stantly colored by the classical influence, it would be utterly
unfair to lay to the charge of that influence the first debase-
ment of the earlier schools, which had lost the strength of
their system before they could be struck by the plague.
§ v. The manner, however, of the debasement of all
schools of art, so far as it is natural, is in all ages the same ;
luxuriance of ornament, refinement of execution, and idle sub-
tleties of fancy, taking the place of true thought and firm
handling : and I do not intend to delay the reader long by the
Gothic sick-bed, for our task is not so much to watch the wast-
ing of fever in the features of the expiring king, as to trace
the character of that Hazael who dipped the cloth in water,
and laid it upon his face. Nevertheless, it is necessary to the
completeness of our view of the architecture of Venice, as
well as to our understanding of the manner in which the Cen-
tral Renaissance obtained its universal dominion, that we
glance briefly at the principal forms into which Venetian
Gothic first declined. They are two in number : one the cor-
ruption of the Gothic itself ; the other a partial return to By-
zantine forms ; for the Venetian • mind having carried the
Gothic to a point at which it was dissatisfied, tried to retrace
its steps, fell back first upon Byzantine types, and through them
passed to the first Roman. But in thus retracing its steps,
it does not recover its own lost energy. It revisits the places
through which it had passed in the morning light, but it is now
with wearied limbs, and under the gloomy shadows of evening.
4 THIRD PERIOD.
§ vi. It has just been said that the two principal causes of
natural decline in any school, are over-luxuriance and over-
refinement. The corrupt Gothic of Venice furnishes us with
a curious instance of the one, and the corrupt Byzantine of
the other. We shall examine them in succession.
Now, observe, first, I do not mean by luxuriance of orna-
ment, quantity of ornament. In the best Gothic in the world
there is hardly an inch of stone left unsculptured. But I mean
that character of extravagance in the ornament itself "xrhich
shows that it was addressed to jaded faculties ; a violence and
coarseness in curvature, a depth of shadow, a lusciousness in
arrangement of line, evidently arising out of an incapability of
feeling the true beauty of chaste form and restrained power.
I do not know any character of design which may be more
easily recognized at a glance than this over-lusciousness ; and
yet it seems to me that at the present day there is nothing so
little understood as the essential difference between chasteness
and extravagance, whether in color, shade, or lines. We speak
loosely and inaccurately of " overcharged " ornament, with an
obscure feeling that there is indeed something in visible Form
which is correspondent to Intemperance in moral habits ; but
without any distinct detection of the character which offends
us, far less with any understanding of the most important
lesson which there can be no doubt was intended to be con-
veyed by the universality of this ornamental law.
§ vn. In a word, then, the safeguard of highest beauty, ii
all visible work, is exactly that which is also the safeguard oi
conduct in the soul, — Temperance, in the broadest sense ; the
Temperance which we have seen sitting on an equal throm
with Justice amidst the Four Cardinal Yirtn.es, and, wanting
which, there is not any other virtue which may not lead
into desperate error. Now, observe: Temperance, in the
nobler sense, does not mean a subdued and imperfect energy
it does not mean a stopping short in any good thing, as in
Love or in Faith ; but it means the power which governs the
most intense energy, and prevents its acting in any way but
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 5
as it ought. And with respect to things in which there may
be excess, it does not mean imperfect enjoyment of them ; but
the regulation of their quantity, so that the enjoyment of them
shall be greatest. For instance, in the matter we have at
present in hand, temperance in color does not mean imperfect
or dull enjoyment of color ; but it means that government of
color which shall bring the utmost possible enjoyment out of
all hues. A bad colorist does not love beautiful color better
than the best colorist does, nor half so much. But he indulges
in it to excess ; he uses it in large masses, and unsubdued ;
and then it is a law of Nature, a law as universal as that of
gravitation, that he shall not be able to enjoy it so much as if
he had used it in less quantity. His eye is jaded and satiated,
and the blue and red have life in them no more. He tries to
paint them bluer and redder, in vain : all the blue has become
grey, and gets greyer the more he adds to it ; all his crimson
has become brown, and gets more sere and autumnal the more
he deepens it. But the great painter is sternly temperate in
his work ; he loves the vivid color with all his heart ; but for
a long time he does not allow himself anything like it, nothing
but sober browns and dull greys, and colors that have no con-
'ceivable beauty in them ; but these by his government become
lovely : and after bringing out of them all the life and power
they possess, and enjoying them to the uttermost, — cautiously,
and as the crown of the work, and the consummation of its
music, he permits the momentary crimson and azure, and the
whole canvas is in a flame.
§ vm. Again, in curvature, which is the cause of loveliness
in all form ; the bad designer does not enjoy it more than the
great designer, but he indulges in it till his "eye is satiated, and
he cannot obtain enough of it to touch his jaded feeling for
grace. But the great1 and temperate designer does not allow
himself any violent curves; he works much with lines in
which the curvature, though always existing, is long before it
is perceived. He dwells on all these subdued curvatures to the
uttermost, and opposes them with still severer lines to bring
THIRD PERIOD.
them out in fuller sweetness ; and, at last, he allows himself a
momentary curve of energy, and all the work is, in an instant,
full of life and grace.
The curves drawn in Plate YII. of the first volume, were
chosen entirely to show this character of dignity and restraint,
as it appears in the lines of nature, together with the per-
petual changefulness of the degrees of curvature in one and
the same line; but although the purpose of that plate was
carefully explained in the chapter which it illustrates, as well
as in the passages of " Modern Painters" therein referred to
(vol. ii. pp. 43, 79), so little are we now in the habit of con-
sidering the character of abstract lines, that it was thought by
many persons that this plate only illustrated Hogarth's re-
versed line of beauty, even although the curve of the salvia
leaf, which was the one taken from that plate for future use,
in architecture, was not a reversed or serpentine curve at all.
I shall now, however, I hope, be able to show my meaning
better.
§ ix. Fig. 1 in Plate I., opposite, is a piece of ornamenta-
tion from a Norman-French manuscript of the thirteenth
century, and fig. 2 from an Italian one of the fifteenth. Ob-
serve in the first its stern moderation in curvature ; the gradu-
ally united lines nearly straight, though none quite straight,
used for its main limb, and contrasted with the bold but
simple offshoots of its leaves, and the noble spiral from which
it shoots, these in their turn opposed by the sharp trefoils
and thorny cusps. And see what a reserve of resource there
is in the whole ; how easy it would have been to make the
curves more palpable and the foliage more rich, and how the
noble hand has stayed itself, and refused to grant one wave of
motion more.
§ x. Then observe the other example, in which, while the
same idea is continually repeated, excitement and interest are
sought for by means of violent and continual curvatures wholly
unrestrained, and rolling hither and thither in confused wan-
tonness. Compare the character of the separate lines in these
two examples carefully, and be assured that wherever this
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 7
redundant and luxurious curvature shows itself in ornamenta-
tion, it is a sign of jaded energy and failing invention. Do
not confuse it with fulness or richness. Wealth is not neces-
sarily wantonness : a Gothic moulding may be buried half a
foot deep in thorns and leaves, and yet will be chaste in every
line ; and a late Kenaissance moulding may be utterly barren
and poverty-stricken, and yet will show the disposition to lux-
ury in every line.
§ xi. Plate XX., in the second volume, though prepared
for the special illustration of the notices of capitals, becomes
peculiarly interesting when considered in relation to the points
at present under consideration. The four leaves in the upper
row are Byzantine ; the two middle rows are transitional, all
but fig. 11, which is of the formed Gothic ; fig. 12 is perfect
Gothic of the finest time (Ducal Palace, oldest part), fig. 13 is
Gothic beginning to decline, fig. 14 is Renaissance Gothic in
complete corruption.
Now observe, first, the Gothic naturalism advancing gradu-
ally from the Byzantine severity ; how from the sharp, hard,
formalized conventionality of the upper series the leaves grad
ually expand into more free and flexible animation, until in
fig. 12 we have the perfect living leaf as if fresh gathered out
of the dew. And then, in the last two examples and partly in
fig. 11, observe how the forms which can advance no longer
in animation, advance, or rather decline, into luxury and effemi-
nacy as the strength of the school expires.
§ xn. In the second place, note that the Byzantine and
Gothic schools, however differing in degree of life, are both
alike in temperance, though the temperance of the Gothic is
the nobler, because it consists with entire animation. Observe
how severe and subtle the curvatures are in all the leaves
from fig. 1 to fig. 12, except only in fig. 11; and observe
especially the firmness and strength obtained by the close
approximation to the straight line in the lateral ribs of the
leaf, fig. 12. The longer the eye rests on these temperate curva-
tures the more it will enjoy them, but it will assuredly in the
end be wearied by the morbid exaggeration of the last example.
8 THIRD PERIOD.
§ xiii. Finally, observe — and this is very important — how
one and the same character in the work may be a sign of
totally different states of mind, and therefore in one case bad,
and in the other good. The examples, fig. 3. and fig. 12., are
both equally pure in line ; but one is subdivided in the ex-
treme, the other broad in the extreme, and both are beautiful.
The Byzantine mind delighted in the delicacy of subdivision
which nature shows in the fern-leaf or parsley-leaf ; and so,
also, often the Gothic mind, much enjoying the oak, thorn,
and thistle. But the builder of the Ducal Palace used great
breadth in his foliage, in order to harmonize with the broad
surface of his mighty wall, and delighted in this breadth as
nature delights in the sweeping freshness of the dock-leaf or
water-lily. Both breadth and subdivision are thus nobie, when
they are contemplated or conceived by a mind in health ; and
both become ignoble, when conceived by a mind jaded and
satiated. The subdivision in fig. 13 as compared with the
type, fig. 12, which it was intended to improve, is the sign,
not of a mind which loved intricacy, but of one which could
not relish simplicity, which had not strength enough to enjoy
the broad masses of the earlier leaves, and cut them to pieces
idly, like a child tearing the book which, in its weariness, it
cannot read. And on the other hand, we shall continually
find, in other examples of work of the same period, an un-
wholesome breadth or heaviness, which results from the mind
having no longer any care for refinement or precision, nor
taking any delight in delicate forms, but making all things
blunted, cumbrous, and dead, losing at the same time the sense
of the elasticity and spring of natural curves. It is as if the
soul of man, itself severed from the root of its health, am
about to fall into corruption, lost the perception of life in al
things around it ; and could no more distinguish the wave oi
the strong branches, full of muscular strength and sanguine
circulation, from the lax bending of a broken cord, nor the
sinuousness of the edge of the leaf, crushed into deep folds
the expansion of its living growth, from the wrinkled contrac
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 9
tion of its decay.* Tlras, in morals, there is a care for trifles
which proceeds from love and conscience, and is most holy ;
and a care for trifles which comes of idleness and frivolity, and
is most base. And so, also, there is a gravity proceeding from
thought, which is most noble ; and a gravity proceeding from
dulness and mere incapability of enjoyment, which is most
base. Now, in the various forms assumed by the later Gothic
of Venice, there are one or two features which, under other
circumstances, would not have been signs of decline ; but, in
the particular manner of their occurrence here, indicate the
fatal weariness of decay. Of all these features the most dis-
tinctive are its crockets and finials.
§ xrv. There is not to be found a single crocket or finial
upon any part of the Ducal Palace built during the fourteenth
century; and although they occur on contemporary, and on
some much earlier, buildings, they either indicate detached
examples of schools not properly Venetian, or are signs of
incipient decline.
The reason of this is, that the finial is properly the orna-
ment of gabled architecture ; it is the compliance, in the
minor features of the building, with the spirit of its towers
ridged roof, and spires. Venetian building -is not gabled, but
horizontal in its roots and general masses ; therefore the finial
is a feature contradictory to its spirit, and adopted only in that
search for morbid excitement which is the infallible indication
of decline. When it occurs earlier, it is on fragments of
true gabled architecture, as, for instance, on the porch of the
Carmini.
In proportion to the unjustifiableness of its introduction
was the extravagance of the form it assumed ; becoming,
sometimes, a tuft at the top of the ogee windows, half as high
as the arch itself, and consisting, in the richest examples, of a
human figure, half emergent out of a cup of leafage, as, for
* There is a curious instance of this in the modern imitations of the
Gothic capitals of the Casa d' Oro, employed in its restorations. The old
capitals look like clusters of leaves, the modern ones like kneaded masses
of dough with holes in them.
10 THIED PERIOD.
instance, in the small archway of the Campo San Zaccaria :
while the crockets, as being at the side of the arch, and not
so strictly connected with its balance and symmetry, appear to
consider themselves at greater liberty even than the finials, and
fling themselves, hither and thither, in the wildest contortions.
Fig. 4. in Plate I, is the outline of one, carved in stone, from
the later Gothic of St. Mark's ; fig. 3 a crocket from the fine
Veronese Gothic ; in order to enable the reader to discern the
Renaissance character better by comparison with the examples
of curvature above them, taken from the manuscripts. And
not content with this exuberance in the external ornaments of
the arch, the finial interferes with its traceries. The increased
intricacy of these, as such, being a natural process in the de-
velopement of Gothic, would have been no evil ; but they are
corrupted by the enrichment of the finial at the point of the
cusp, — corrupted, that is to say, in Venice : for at Verona the
finial, in the form of a fleur-de-lis, appears long previously at
the cusp point, with exquisite effect; and in our own best
Northern Gothic it is often used beautifully in this place, as
in the window from Salisbury, Plate XII. (Vol. II.), fig. 2.
But in Venice, such a treatment of it was utterly contrary to
the severe spirit of the ancient traceries ; and the adoption of
a leafy finial at the extremity of the cusps in the door of San
Stefano, as opposed to the simple ball which terminates those
of the Ducal Palace, is an unmistakable indication of a ten-
dency to decline.
In like manner, the enrichment and complication of the
jamb mouldings, which, in other schools, might and did take
place in the healthiest periods, are, at Venice, signs of decline,
owing to the entire incensistency of such mouldings with the
ancient love of the single square jamb and archivolt. The
process of enrichment in them is shown by the successive e:s
ainples given in Plate VII., below. They are numbered, anc
explained in the Appendix.
§ xv. The date at which this corrupt form of Gothic first
prevailed over the early simplicity of the Venetian types car
be determined in an instant, on the steps of the choir of tl
I. EAKLY RENAISSANCE. 11
Church of St. John and Paul. On our left hand, as we enter,
is the tomb of the Doge Marco Cornaro, who died in 1367.
It is rich and fully developed Gothic, with crockets and finials,
but not yet attaining any extravagant developement. Oppo-
site to it is that of the Doge Andrea Morosini, who died in
1382. Its Gothic is voluptuous, and over-wrought ; the crock-
ets are bold and florid, and the enormous finial represents a
statue of St. Michael. There is no excuse for the antiquaries
who, having this tomb before them, could have attributed the
severe architecture of the Ducal Palace to a later date; for
every one of the Renaissance errors is here in complete de-
velopement, though not so grossly as entirely to destroy the
loveliness of the Gothic forms. In the Porta della Carta,
1423, the vice reaches its climax.
§ xvi. Against this degraded Gothic, then, came up the
Renaissance armies ; and their first assault was in the require-
ment of universal perfection. For the first time since the
destruction of Rome, the world had seen, in the work of the
greatest artists of the fifteenth century, — in the painting of
Ghirlandajo, Masaccio, Francia, Perugino, Pinturicchio, and
Bellini ; in the sculpture of Mino da Fiesole, of Ghiberti, and
Yerrocchio, — a perfection of execution and fulness of knowl-
edge which cast all previous art into the shade, and which,
being in the work of those men united with all that was great
in that of former days, did indeed justify the utmost enthu-
siasm with which their eiforts were, or could be, regarded.
But when this perfection had once been exhibited in anything,
it was required in everything ; the world could no longer be
satisfied with less exquisite execution, or less disciplined knowl-
edge. The first thing that it demanded in all work was, that
it should be done in a consummate and learned way ; and men
altogether forgot that it was possible to consummate what was
contemptible, and to know what was useless. Imperatively
requiring dexterity of touch, they gradually forgot to look for
tenderness of feeling ; imperatively requiring accuracy of
knowledge, they gradually forgot to ask for originality of
thought. The thought and the feeling which they despised
12 THIRD PERIOD.
departed from them, and they were left to felicitate them-
selves on their small science and their neat fingering. This
is the history of the first attack of the Renaissance upon the
Gothic schools, and of its rapid results, more fatal and immedi-
ate in architecture than in any other art, because there the
demand for perfection was less reasonable, and less consistent
with the capabilities of the workman ; being utterly opposed
to that rudeness or savageness on which, as we saw above, the
nobility of the elder schools in great part depends. But inas-
much as the innovations were founded on some of the most
beautiful examples of art, and headed by some of the greatest
men that the world ever saw, and as the Gothic with which
they interfered was corrupt and valueless, the first appearance
of the Renaissance feeling had the appearance of a healthy
movement. A new energy replaced whatever weariness or
dulness had affected the Gothic mind ; an exquisite taste and
refinement, aided by extended knowledge, furnished the first
models of the new school ; and over the whole of Italy a style
arose, generally now known as cinque-cento, which in sculpture
and painting, as I just stated, produced the noblest masters
which the world ever saw, headed by Michael Angelo, Raphael,
and Leonardo ; but which failed of doing the same in architec-
ture, because, as we have seen above, perfection is therein not
possible, and failed more totally than it would otherwise have
done, because the classical enthusiasm had destroyed the best
types of architectural form.
§ xvn. For, observe here very carefully, the Renaissance
principle, as it consisted in a demand for universal perfectio:
is quite distinct from the Renaissance principle as it consis
in a demand for classical and Roman forms of perfectio
And if I had space to follow out the subject as I should d
sire, I would first endeavor to ascertain what might have bee
the course of the art of Europe if no manuscripts of classical
authors had been recovered, and no remains of classical
tecture left, in the fifteenth century ; so that the executi
perfection to which the efforts of all great men had tended for
five hundred years, and which now at last was reached, mig'
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 13
have been allowed to develope itself in its own natural and
proper form, in connexion with the architectural structure of
earlier schools. This refinement and perfection had indeed
its own perils, and the history of later Italy, as she sank into
pleasure and thence into corruption, would probably have
been the same whether she had ever learned again to write
pure Latin or not. Still the inquiry into the probable cause
of the enervation which might naturally have followed the
highest exertion of her energies, is a totally distinct one from
that into the particular form given to this enervation by her
classical learning; and it is matter of considerable regret to
me that I cannot treat these two subjects separately : I must
be content with marking them for separation in the mind of
the reader.
§ xvni. The effect, then, of the sudden enthusiasm for clas-
sical literature, which gained strength during every hour of
the fifteenth century, was, as far as respected architecture, to
do away with the entire system of Gothic science. The
pointed arch, the shadowy vault, the clustered shaft, the
heaven-pointing spire, were all swept away ; and no structure
was any longer permitted but that of the plain cross-beam
from pillar to pillar, over the round arch, with square or cir-
cular shafts, and a low-gabled roof and pediment : two ele-
ments of noble form, which had fortunately existed in Rome,
were, however, for that reason, still permitted; the cupola,
and, internally, the waggon vault.
§ xix. These changes in form were all of them unfortu-
nate ; and it is almost impossible to do justice to the occasion-
ally exquisite ornamentation of the fifteenth century, on ac-
count of its being placed upon edifices of the cold and meagre
Roman outline. There is, as far as I know, only one Gothic
building in Europe, the Duomo of Florence, in which, though
the ornament be of a much earlier school, it is yet so exqui-
sitely finished as to enable us to imagine what might have
been the effect of the perfect workmanship of the Renaissance,
coming out of the hands of men like Verrocchio and Ghiberti,
had it been employed on the magnificent framework of Gothic
14 THIRD PERIOD.
structure. This is the question which, as I shall note in the
concluding chapter, we ought to set ourselves practically to
solve in modern times.
§ xx. The changes effected in form, however, were the
least part of the evil principles of the Renaissance. As I have
just said, its main mistake, in its early stages, was the unwhole-
some demand for perfection, at any cost. I hope enough has
been advanced, in the chapter on the Nature of Gothic, to
show the reader that perfection is not to be had from the gen-
eral workman, but at the cost of everything, — of his whole
life, thought, and energy. And Renaissance Europe thought
this a small price to pay for manipulative perfection. Men
like Yerrocchio and Ghiberti were not to be had every day,
nor in every place ; and to require from the common workman
execution or knowledge like theirs, was to require him to be-
come their copyist. Their strength was great enough to
enable them to join science with invention, method with emo-
tion, finish with fire ; but, in them, the invention and the fire
were first, while Europe saw in them only the method and the
finish. This was new to the minds of men, and they pursued
it to the neglect of everything else. " This," they cried, " we
must have in all our work henceforward:" and they were
obeyed. The lower workman secured method and finish, and
lost, in exchange for them, his soul.
§ xxi. Now, therefore, do not let me be misunderstood
when I speak generally of the evil spirit of the Renaissance.
The reader may look through all I have written, from first to
last, and he will not find one word but of the most profounc
reverence for those mighty men who could wear the Renais
sance armor of proof, -and yet not feel it encumber theii
living limbs,* — Leonardo and Michael Angelo, Ghirlandajc
and Masaccio, Titian and Tintoret. But I speak of the Renais
sance as an evil time, because, when it saw those men go bun
ing forth into the battle, it mistook their armor for theii
* Not that even these men were able to wear it altogether without harm,
as we shall see in the next chapter.
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 15
strength : and forthwith encumbered with the painful panoply
every stripling who ought to have gone forth only with his
own choice of three smooth stones out of the brook.
§ xxii. This, then, the reader must always keep in mind
when he is examining for himself any examples of cinque-
cento work. When it has been done by a truly great man,
whose life and strength could not be oppressed, and who turned
to good account the whole science of his day, nothing is more
exquisite. I do not believe, for instance, that there is a more
glorious work of sculpture existing in the world than that
equestrian statue of Bartolomeo Colleone, by Verrocchio, of
which, I hope, before 1;hese pages are printed, there will be a
cast in England. But when the cinque-cento work lias" been
done by those meaner men, who, in the Gothic times, though
in a rough way, would yet have found some means of speaking
out what was in their hearts, it is utterly inanimate, — a base
and helpless copy of more accomplished models; or, if not
this, a mere accumulation of technical skill, in gaining which
the workman had surrendered all other powers that were in
him.
There is, therefore, of course, an infinite gradation in the
art of the period, from the Sistiue Chapel down to modern up-
holstery ; but, for the most part, since in architecture the work-
man must be of an inferior order, it will be found that this
cinque-cento painting and higher religious sculpture is noble,
while the cinque-cento architecture, with its subordinate sculp-
ture, is universally bad ; sometimes, however, assuming forms,
in which the consummate refinement almost atones for the loss
of force.
§ xxin. This is especially the case with that second branch
of the Renaissance which, as above noticed, was engrafted at
Yenice on the Byzantine types. So soon as the classical enthu-
siasm required the banishment of Gothic forms, it was natural
that the Yenetian mind should turn back with affection to the
Byzantine models in which the round arches and simple shafts,
necessitated by recent law, were presented under a form con-
secrated by the usage of their ancestors. And, accordingly.
16 THIRD PERIOD.
the first distinct school of architecture* which arose under the
new dynasty, was one in which the method of inlaying marble,
and the general forms of shaft and arch, were adopted from
the buildings of the twelfth century, and applied with the ut-
most possible refinements of modern skill. Both at Yerona
and Yenice the resulting .architecture is exceedingly beautiful.
At Yerona it is, indeed, less Byzantine, but possesses a charac-
ter of richness and tenderness almost peculiar to that city. At
Yenice it is more severe, but yet adorned with sculpture which,
for sharpness of touch and delicacy of minute form, cannot be
rivalled, and rendered especially brilliant and beautiful by the
introduction of those inlaid circles of colored marble, serpen-
tine, and porphyry, by which Phillippe de Commynes was so
much struck on his first entrance into the city. The two most
refined buildings in this style in Yenice are, the small Church
of the Miracoli, and the Scuola di San Marco beside the Church
of St. John and St. Paul. The noblest is the Rio Facade of
the Ducal Palace. The Casa Dario, and Casa Manzoni, on the
Grand Canal, are exquisite examples of the school, as applied
to domestic architecture ; and, in the reach of the canal be-
tween the Casa Foscari and the Rialto, there are several palaces,
of which the Casa Contarini (called "delle Figure") is the
principal, belonging to the same group, though somewhat later,
and remarkable for the association of the Byzantine principles
of color with the severest lines of the Roman pediment, grad-
ually superseding the round arch. The precision of chiselling
and delicacy of proportion in the ornament and general lines
of these palaces cannot be too highly praised ; and I believe
that the traveller in Yenice, in general, gives them rather too
little attention than too much. But while I would ask him to
stay his gondola beside each of them long enough to examine
their every line, I must also warn him to observe, most care*-
fully, the peculiar feebleness and want of soul in the concep-
tion of their ornament, which mark them as belonging to a
period of decline ; as well as the absurd mode of introduction
* Appendix 4, "Date of Palaces of Byzantine Renaissance."
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 17
of their pieces of colored marble : these, instead of being simply
and naturally inserted in the masonry, are placed in small circu-
lar or oblong frames of sculpture, like mirrors or pictures, and
are represented as suspended by ribands against the wall ; a
pair of wings being generally fastened on to the circular tablets,
as if to relieve the ribands and knots from their weight, and
the whole series tied under the chin of a little cherub at the
top, who is nailed against the facade like a hawk on a barn
door.
But chiefly let him notice, in the Casa Contarini delle
Figure, one most strange incident, seeming to have been per-
mitted, like the choice of the subjects at the three angles of
the Ducal Palace, in order to teach us, by a single lesson, the
true nature of the style in which it occurs. In the intervals
of the windows of the first story, certain shields and torches
are attached, in the form of trophies, to the stems of two trees
whose boughs have been cut off, and only one or two of their
faded leaves left, scarcely observable, but delicately sculptured
here and there, beneath the insertions of the severed boughs.
It is as if the workman had intended to leave us an image
of the expiring naturalism of the Gothic school. I had not
seen this sculpture when I wrote the passage referring to its
period, in the first volume of this work (Chap. XX. § xxxi.) :
— "Autumn came, — the leaves were shed, — and the eye was
directed to the extremities of the delicate branches. The
Renaissance frosts came, and all perished /"
§ xxrv. And the hues of this autumn of the early Renais-
sance are the last which appear in architecture. The winter
which succeeded was colorless as it was cold ; and although
the Venetian painters struggled long against its influence, the
numbness of the architecture prevailed over them at last, and
the exteriors of all the latter palaces were built only in barren
stone. As at this point of our inquiry, therefore, we must bid
farewell to color, I have reserved for this place the continua-
tion of the history of chromatic decoration, from the Byzan-
tine period, when we left it in the fifth chapter of the second
volume, down to its final close.
18 THIRD PEBIOD.
§ xxv. It was above stated, that the principal difference in
general form and treatment between the Byzantine and Gothic
palaces was the contraction of the marble facing into the nar-
row spaces between the windows, leaving large fields of brick
wall perfectly bare. The reason for this appears to have been,
that the Gothic builders were no longer satisfied with the faint
and delicate hues of the veined marble ; they wished for some
more forcible and piquant mode of decoration, corresponding
more completely with the gradually advancing splendor of
chivalric costume and heraldic device. What I have said
above of the simple habits of life of the thirteenth century,
in no wise refers either to costumes of state, or of military
service; and any illumination of the thirteenth and early four-
teenth centuries (the great period being, it seems to me, from
1250 to 1350), while it shows a peculiar majesty and simplicity
in the fall of the robes (often worn over the chain armor),
indicates, at the same time, an exquisite brilliancy of color and
power of design in the hems and borders, as well as in the
armorial bearings with which they are charged ; and while, as
we have seen, a peculiar simplicity is found also in the forms
of the architecture, corresponding to that of the folds of the
robes, its colors were constantly increasing in brilliancy and
decision, corresponding to those of the quartering of the shield,
and of the embroidery of the mantle.
§ xxvi. Whether, indeed, derived from the quarterings of
the knights' shields, or from what other source, I know not ;
but there is one magnificent attribute of the coloring of the
late twelfth, the whole thirteenth, and the early fourteenth
century, which I do not find definitely in any previous work,
nor afterwards in general art, though constantly, and neces-
sarily, in that of great colorists, namely, the union of one color
with another by reciprocal interference : that is to say, if a
mass of red is to be set beside a mass of blue, a piece of the
red will be carried into the blue, and a piece of the blue car-
ried into the red ; sometimes in nearly equal portions, as in a
shield divided into four quarters, of which the uppermost on
one side will be of the same color as the lowermost on the
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 10
other; sometimes in smaller fragments, but, in the periods
above named, always definitely and grandly, though in a thou-
sand various ways. And I call it a magnificent principle, for
it is an eternal and universal one, not in art only,* but in
human life. It is the great principle of Brotherhood, not by
equality, nor by likeness, but by giving and receiving ; the
souls that are unlike, and the nations that are unlike, and the
natures that are unlike, being bound into one noble whole by
each receiving something from, and of, the others' gifts and
the others' glory. I have not space to follow out this thought,
—it is of infinite extent and application, — but I note it for the
reader's pursuit, because I have long believed, and the whole
second volume of "Modern Painters" was written to prove,
that in whatever has been made by the Deity externally de-
lightful to the human sense of beauty, there is some type of
God's nature or of God's laws ; nor are any of His laws, in
one sense, greater than the appointment that the most lovely
and perfect unity shall be obtained by the taking of one nature
into another. I trespass upon too high ground ; and yet I
cannot fully show the reader the extent of this law, but by
leading him thus far. And it is just because it is so vast and
so awful a law, that it has rule over the smallest things ; and
there is not a vein of color on the lightest leaf which the
spring winds are at this moment unfolding in the fields around
* In the various works which Mr. Prout has written on light and shade,
no principle will be found insisted on more strongly than this carrying of
the dark into the light, and vice versa. It is curious to find the untaught
instinct of a merely picturesque artist in the nineteenth century, fixing itself
so intensely on a principle which regulated the entire sacred composition of
the thirteenth. I say "untaught" instinct, for Mr. Prout was, throughout
his life, the discoverer of his own principles; fortunately so, considering
what principles were taught in his time, but unfortunately in the abstract,
for there were gifts in him, which, had there been any wholesome influ-
ences to cherish them, might have made him one of the greatest men of his
age. He was great, under all adverse circumstances, but the mere wreck
of what he might have been, if, after the rough training noticed in my
pamphlet on Pre-Raphaelitism, as having fitted him for his great function
in the world, he had met with a teacher who could have appreciated hig
powers, and directed them.
20 THIRD PERIOD.
us, but it is an illustration of an ordainment to which the
earth and its creatures owe their continuance, and their Re-
demption.
§ xxvn. It is perfectly inconceivable, until it has been
made a subject of special inquiry, how perpetually Nature
employs this principle in the distribution of her light and
shade ; how by the most extraordinary adaptations, apparently
accidental, but always in exactly the right place, she contrives
to bring darkness into light, and light into darkness ; and that
BO sharply and decisively, that at the very instant when one
object changes from light to dark, the thing relieved upon it
will change from dark to light, and yet so subtly that the eye
will not detect the transition till it looks for it. The secret
of a great part of the grandeur in all the noblest compositions
is the doing of this delicately in degree, and broadly in mass ;
in color it may be done much more decisively than in light
and shade, and, according to the simplicity of the work, with
greater frankness of confession, until, in purely decorative
art, as in the illumination, glass-painting, and heraldry of the
great periods, we find it reduced to segmental accuracy. Its
greatest masters, in high art, are Tintoret, Veronese, and
Turner.
§ xxvm. Together with this great principle of quartering
is introduced another, also of very high value as far as regards
the delight of the eye, though not of so profound meaning.
As soon as color began to be used in broad and opposed fields,
it was perceived that the mass of it destroyed its brilliancy,
and it was tempered by chequering it with some other color or
colors in smaller quantities, mingled with minute portions of
pure white. The two moral principles of which this is the
type, are those of Temperance and Purity ; the one requiring
the fulness of the color .to be subdued, and the other that it
shall be subdued without losing either its own purity or that
of the colors with which it is associated.
§ xxix. Hence arose the universal and admirable system oi
the diapered or chequered background of early ornamental art.
They are completely developed in the thirteenth century, and
1. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 21
extend through the whole of the fourteenth gradually yielding
to landscape, and other pictorial backgrounds, as the designers
lost perception of the purpose of their art, and of the value
of color. The chromatic decoration of the Gothic palaces of
Venice was of course founded on these two great principles,
which prevailed constantly wherever the true chivalric and
Gothic spirit possessed any influence. The windows, with
their intermediate spaces of marble, were considered as the
objects to be relieved, and variously quartered with vigorous
color. The whole space of the brick wall was considered as a
background ; it was covered with stucco, and painted in fresco,
with diaper patterns.
§ xxx. What ? the reader asks in some surprise, — Stucco !
and in the great Gothic period ? Even so, but not stucco to
imitate stone. Herein lies all the difference ; it is stucco con-
fessed and understood, and laid on the bricks precisely as gesso
is laid on canvas, in order to form them into a ground for
receiving color from the human hand, — color which, if well
laid on, might -render the brick wall more precious than if it
had been built of emeralds. Whenever we wish to paint, we
may prepare our paper as we choose; the value of the ground
in no wise adds to the value of the picture. A Tintoret on
beaten gold would be of no more value than a Tintoret on
coarse canvas; the gold would merely be wasted. All that
we have to do is to make the ground as good and fit for the
color as possible, by whatever means.
§ xxxi. I am not sure if I am right in applying the term
"stucco" to the ground of fresco; but this is of no conse-
quence ; the reader will understand that it was white, and that
the whole wall of the palace was considered as the page of a
book to be illuminated : but he will understand also that the
sea winds are bad librarians; that, when once the painted
stucco began to fade or to fall, the unsightliness of the defaced
color would necessitate its immediate restoration ; and that
therefore, of all the chromatic decoration of the Gothic palaces,
there is hardly a fragment left.
Happily, in the pictures of Gentile Bellini, the fresco color-
22 THIRD PERIOD.
ing of the Gothic palaces is recorded, as it still remained in
his time ; not with rigid accuracy, but quite distinctly enough
to enable us, by comparing it with the existing colored designs
in the manuscripts and glass of the period, to ascertain pre-
cisely what it must have been.
§ xxxii. The walls were generally covered with chequers
of very warm color, a russet inclining to scarlet, more or less
relieved with white, black, and grey ; as still seen in the only
example which, having been executed in marble, has been per-
fectly preserved, the front of the Ducal Palace. This, how-
ever, owing to the nature of its materials, was a peculiarly
simple example ; the ground is white, crossed with double
bars of pale red, and in the centre of each chequer there is a
cross, alternately black with a red centre and red with a black
centre where the arms cross. In painted work the grounds
would be, of course, as varied and complicated as those of
manuscripts; but I only know of one example left, on the
Casa Sagredo, where, on some fragments of stucco, a very
early chequer background is traceable, composed of crimson
quatrefoils interlaced, with cherubim stretching their wings
filling the intervals. A small portion of this ground is seen
beside the window taken from the palace, Yol. II. Plate
XIII. fig. 1.
§ xxxin. It ought to be especially noticed, that, in all
chequered patterns employed in the colored designs of these
noble periods, the greatest care is taken to mark that they are
grounds of design rather than designs themselves. Modern
architects, in such minor imitations as they are beginning to
attempt, endeavor to dispose the parts in the patterns so
to occupy certain symmetrical positions with respect to the
parts of the architecture. A Gothic builder never does this
he cuts his ground into pieces of the shape he requires witl
utter remorselessness, and places his windows or doors upor
it with no regard whatever to the lines in which they cut the
pattern: and, in illuminations of manuscripts, the chequer
itself is constantly changed in the most subtle and arbitrary
way, wherever there is the least chance of its regularity at-
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 23
tracting the eye, and making it of importance. So intentional
is this, that a diaper pattern is often set obliquely to the verti-
cal lines of the designs, for fear it should appear in any way
connected with them.
§ xxxiv. On these russet or crimson backgrounds the entire
space of the series of windows was relieved, for the most part,
as a subdued white field of alabaster ; and on this delicate and
veined white were set the circular disks of purple and green.
The arms of the family were of course blazoned in their own
proper colors, but I think generally on a pure azure ground ;
the blue color is still left behind the shields in the Casa Priuli
and one or two more of the palaces which are unrestored, and
the blue ground wras used also to relieve the sculptures of re-
ligious subject. Finally, all the mouldings, capitals, cornices,
cusps, and traceries, were either entirely gilded or profusely
touched with gold.
The whole front of a Gothic palace in Venice may, there-
fore, be simply described as a field of subdued russet, quartered
with broad sculptured masses of white and gold ; these latter
being relieved by smaller inlaid fragments of blue, purple, and
deep green.
§ xxxv. Now, from the beginning of the fourteenth cen-
tury, when painting and architecture were thus united, two
processes of change went on simultaneously to the beginning
of the seventeenth. The merely decorative chequerings on
the walls yielded gradually to more elaborate paintings of
figure-subject ; first small and quaint, and then enlarging into
enormous pictures filled by figures generally colossal. As
these paintings became of greater merit and importance, the
architecture with which they were associated was less studied ;
and at last a style was introduced in which the framework of
the building was little more interesting than that of a Man-
chester factory, but the whole space of its walls was covered
with the most precious fresco paintings. Such edifices are of
course no longer to be considered as forming an architectural
school ; they were merely large preparations of artists' panels ;
and Titian, Giorgione, and Veronese no more conferred merit
24 THIRD PERIOD.
on the later architecture of Yenice, as such, by painting on its
facades, than Landseer or Watts could confer merit on that
of London by first whitewashing and then painting its brick
streets from one end to the other.
§ xxxvi. Contemporarily with this change in the relative
values of the color decoration and the stonework, one equally
important was taking place in the opposite direction, but of
course in another group of buildings. For in proportion as
the architect felt himself thrust aside or forgotten in one edi-
fice, he endeavored to make himself principal in another ; and,
in retaliation for the painter's entire usurpation of certain
fields of design, succeeded in excluding him totally from those
in which his own influence was predominant. Or, more accu-
rately speaking, the architects began to be too proud to receive
assistance from the colorists ; and these latter sought for
ground which the architect had abandoned, for the unre-
strained display of their own skill. And thus, while one
series of edifices is continually becoming feebler in design and
richer in superimposed paintings, another, that of which we
have so often spoken as the earliest or Byzantine Renaissance,
fragment by fragment rejects the pictorial decoration ; supplies
its place first with marbles, and then, as the latter are felt by
the architect, daily increasing in arrogance and deepening in
coldness, to be too bright for his dignity, he ca^ts even these
aside one by one : and when the last porphyry circle has van-
ished from the facade, we find two palaces standing side by
side, one built, so far as mere masonry goes, with consummate
care and skill, but without the slightest vestige of color in any
part of it ; the other utterly without any claim to interest in
its architectural form, but covered from top to bottom with
paintings by Yeronese. At this period, then, we bid farewell
to color, leaving the painters to their own peculiar field ; and
only regretting that they waste their noblest work on walls,
from which in a couple of centuries, if not before, the greater
part of their labor must be effaced. On the other hand, the
architecture whose decline we are tracing, has now assumed
an entirely new condition, that of the Central or True Re-
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 25
naissance, whose nature we are to examine in the next
chapter.
§ xxxvu. But before leaving these last palaces over which
the Byzantine influence extended itself, there is one more
lesson to be learned from them of much importance^to us.
Though in many respects debased in style, they are consum-
mate in workmanship, and unstained in honor ; there is no im-
perfection in them, and no dishonesty. That there is absolutely
no imperfection, is indeed, as we have seen above, a proof of
their being wanting in the highest qualities of architecture ;
but, as lessons in masonry, they have their value, and may well
be studied for the excellence they display m methods of level-
ling stones, for the precision of their inlaying, and other such
qualities, which in them are indeed too principal, yet very in-
structive in their particular way.
§ xxxvm. For instance, in the inlaid design of the dove
with the olive branch, from the Casa Trevisan (Yol. I. Plate
XX. p. 369), it is impossible for anything to go beyond the
precision with which the olive leaves are cut out of the white
marble ; and, in some wreaths of laurel below, the rippled edge
of each leaf is as finely and easily drawn, as if by a delicate
pencil. No Florentine table is more exquisitely finished than
the facade of this entire palace ; and as ideals of an executive
perfection, which, though we must not turn aside from our
main path to reach it, may yet with much advantage be kept in
our sight and memory, these palaces are most notable amidst
the architecture of Europe. The Rio Facade of the Ducal
Palace, though very* sparing in color, is yet, as an example of
finished masonry in a vast building, one of the finest things,
not only in Yenice, but in the world. It differs from other
work of the Byzantine Renaissance, in being on a very large
scale ; and it still retains one pure Gothic character, which,adds
not a little to its nobleness, that of perpetual variety. There
is hardly one window of it, or one panel, that is like another ;
and this continual change so increases its apparent size by con-
fusing the eye, that, though presenting no bold features, or
striking masses of any kind, there are few things in Italy more
26 THIRD PERIOD.
impressive than the vision of it overhead, as the gondola glides
from beneath the Bridge of Sighs. And lastly (unless we are
to blame these buildings for some pieces of very childish per-
spective), they are magnificently honest, as well as perfect. I
do not remember even any gilding upon them ; all is pure
marble, and of the finest kind.*
And therefore, in finally leaving the Ducal Palace, f let us
take with us one more lesson, the last which we shall receive
from the Stones of Yenice, except in the form of a warning.
§ xxxix. The school of architecture which we have just
been examining is, as we have seen above, redeemed from
severe condemnation by its careful and noble use of inlaid
marbles as a means of color. From that time forward, this art
has been unknown, or despised ; the frescoes of the swift and
daring Yenetian painters long contended with the inlaid
marbles, outvying them with color, indeed more glorious than
theirs, but fugitive as the hues of woods in autumn ; and, at
last, as the art itself of painting in this mighty manner failed
from among men,:}: the modern decorative system established
itself, which united the meahinglessness of the veined marble
with the evanescence of the fresco, and completed the harmony
by falsehood.
§ XL. Since first, in the second chapter of the " Seven
Lamps," I endeavored to show the culpableness, as well as the
baseness, of our common modes of decoration by painted imi-
* There may, however, be a kind of dishonesty even in the use of
marble, if it is attempted to make the marble look like something else. See
the final or Venetian Index under head " Scalzi."
f Appendix 5, "Renaissance Side of Ducal Palace."
\ We have, as far as I know, at present among us, only one painter, G.
F. Watts, who is capable of design in color on a large scale. He stands
alone among our artists of the old school, in his perception of the value of
breadth in distant masses, and in the vigor of invention by which sucl
breadth must be sustained; and his power of expression and depth of
thought are not less remarkable than his bold conception of color effect.
Very probably some of the Pre-Raphaelites have the gift also ; I am nearly
certain that Rosetti has it, and I think also Millais; but the experiment has
yet to be tried. I wish it could be made in Mr. Hope's church in Margaret
Street,
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 27
tation of various woods or marbles, the subject has been dis-
cussed in various architectural works, and is evidently becoming
one of daily increasing interest. When it is considered how
many persons there are whose means of livelihood consist alto-
gether in these spurious arts, and how difficult it is, even for
the most candid, to admit a conviction contrary both to their
interests and to their- inveterate habits of practice and thought,
it is rather a matter of wonder, that the cause of Truth should
have found even a few maintainers, than that it should have
encountered a host of adversaries. It has, however, been de-
fended repeatedly by architects themselves, and so successfully,
that I believe, so far as the desirableness of this or "that method
of ornamentation is to be measured by the fact of its simple
honesty or dishonesty, there is little need to add anything to
what has been already urged upon the subject. But there are
some points connected with the practice of imitating marble,
which I have been unable to touch upon until now, and by the
consideration of which we may be enabled to see something of
the policy of honesty in this matter, without in the least aban-
doning the higher ground of principle.
§ XLI. Consider, then, first, what marble seems to have been
made for. Over the greater part of the surface of the world,
we find that a rock has been providentially distributed, in a
manner particularly pointing it out as intended for the service of
man. Not altogether a common rock, it is yet rare enough to
command a certain degree of interest and attention wherever
it is found ; but not so rare as to preclude its use for any pur-
pose to which it is fitted. It is exactly of the consistence
which is best adapted for sculpture : that is to say, neither hard
nor brittle, nor flaky nor splintery, but uniform, and delicately,
yet not ignobly, soft, — exactly soft enough to allow the sculp-
tor to work it without force, and trace on it the finest lines of
finished form ; and yet so hard as never to betray the touch or
moulder away beneath the steel ; and so admirably crystallized,
and of such permanent elements, that no rains dissolve it, no
time changes it, no atmosphere decomposes it : once shaped, it
is shaped for ever, unless subjected to actual violence or attri-
28 THfRD PEKIOD.
tion. This rock, then, is prepared by Nature for the sculptor
and architect, just as paper is prepared by the manufacturer
for the artist, with as great — nay, with greater — care, and more
perfect adaptation of the material to ths requirements. And
of this marble paper, some is white and some colored; but
more is colored than white, because the white is evidently
meant for sculpture, and the colored for the covering of large
surfaces.
§ XLII. Now, if we would take Nature at her word, and use
this precious paper which she has taken so much care to pro-
vide for us (it is a long process, the making of that paper ; the
pulp of it needing the subtlest possible solution, and the press-
ing of it — for it is all hot-pressed — having to be done under
the saw, or under something at least as heavy) ; if, I say, we use
it as Nature would have us, consider what advantages would
follow. The colors of marble are mingled for us just as if on
a prepared palette. They are of all shades and hues (except
bad ones), some being united and even, some broken, mixed,
and interrupted, in order to supply, as far as possible, the want
of the painter's power of breaking and mingling the color with
the brush. But there is more in the colors than this delicacy
of adaptation. There is history in them. By the manner in
which they are arranged in every piece of marble, they record
the means by which that marble has been produced, and the
successive changes through which it has passed. And in all
their veins and zones, and flame-like stainings, or broken and
disconnected lines, they write various legends, never untrue,
of the former political state of the mountain kingdom to which
they belonged, of its infirmities and fortitudes, convulsions and
consolidations, from the beginning of time.
Now, if we were never in the habit of seeing anything but
real marbles, this language of theirs would soon begin to be
understood ; that is to say, even the least observant of us
would recognize such and such stones as forming a peculiar
class, and would begin to inquire where they came from, and,
at last, take some feeble interest in the main question, Why
they were .only to be found in that or the other place, and
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 29
how they came to make a part of this mountain, and not of
that ? And in a little while, it would not be possible to stand
for a moment at a shop door, leaning against the pillars of it,
without remembering or questioning of something well worth
the memory or the inquiry, touching the hills of Italy, or
Greece, or Africa, or Spain ; and we should be led on from
knowledge to knowledge, until even the unsculptured walls of
our streets became to us volumes as precious as those of our
libraries.
§ XLIII. But the moment we admit imitation of marble, this
source of knowledge is destroyed. None of us can be at the
pains to go through the work of verification. If we knew
that every colored stone we raw was natural, certain ques-
tions, conclusions, interests, would force themselves upon us
without any effort of our own ; but we have none of us time
to stop in the midst of our daily business, to touch and pore
over, and decide with painful minuteness of investigation,
whether such and such a pillar be stucco or stone. And the
whole field of this knowledge, which Nature intended us to
possess when we were children, is hopelessly shut out from us.
Worse than shut out, for the mass of coarse imitations con-
fuses our knowledge acquired from other sources; and our
memory of the marbles we have perhaps once or twice care-
fully examined, is disturbed and distorted by the inaccuracy
of the imitations which are brought before us continually.
§ XLIV. But it will be said, that it is too expensive to em-
ploy real marbles in ordinary cases. It may be so : yet not
always more expensive than the fitting windows with enor-
mous plate glass, and decorating them with elaborate stucco
mouldings and other useless sources of expenditure in modern
building ; nay, not always in the end more expensive than the
frequent repainting of the dingy pillars, which a little water
dashed against them would refresh from day to day, if they
were of true stone. But, granting that it be so, in that very
costliness, checking their common use in certain localities, is
part of the interest of marbles, considered as history. Where
they are not found, Nature has supplied other materials, — clay
30 THIRD PERIOD.
for brick, or forest for timber,— in the working of which she
intends other characters of the human mind to be developed,
and by the proper use of whioi certain local advantages will
assuredly be attained, while the delightfulness and meaning
of the precious marbles will be felt more forcibly in the dis-
tricts where they occur, or on the occasions when they may be
procured.
§ XLV. It can hardly be necessary to add, that, as the imi-
tation of marbles interferes with and checks the knowledge of
geography and geology, so the imitation of wood interferes
with that of botany; and that our acquaintance with the
nature, uses, and manner of growth of the timber trees of our
own and of foreign countries, would probably, in the majority
of cases, become accurate and extensive, without any labor or
sacrifice of time, were not all inquiry checked, and all obser-
vation betrayed, by th'e wretched labors of the " Grainer."
§ XLVL But this is not all. As the practice of imitation
retards knowledge, so also it retards art.
There is not a meaner occupation for the human mind than
the imitation of the stains and striae of marble and wood.
When 'engaged in any easy and simple mechanical occupation,
there is still some liberty for the mind to leave the literal
work ; and the clash of the loom or the activity of the fingers
will not always prevent the thoughts from some happy expati-
ation in their own domains. But fhe grainer must think of
what he is doing ; and veritable attention and care, and occa-
sionally considerable skill, are consumed in the doing of a
more absolute nothing than I can name in any other depart-
ment of painful idleness. I know not anything so humiliat-
ing as to see a human being, with arms and limbs complete,
and apparently a head, and assuredly a soul, yet into the hands
of which when you have put a brush and pallet, it cannot do
anything with them but imitate a piece of wood. It cannot
color, it has no ideas of color ; it cannot draw, it has no ideas
of form ; it cannot caricature, it has no ideas of humor. It is
incapable of anything beyond knots. All its achievement, the
entire result of the daily application of its imagination and
I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 31
immortality, is to be such a piece of texture as the sun and
dew are sucking up out of the muddy ground, and weaving
together, far more finely, in millions of millions of growing
branches, over every rood of waste woodland and shady hill.
§ XLVII. But what is to be done, the reader asks, with men
who are capable of nothing else than this ? Nay, they may
be capable of everything else, for all we know, and what we
are to do with them I will try to say in the next chapter ; but
meanwhile one word more touching the higher principles of
action in this matter, from which we have descended, to those
of expediency. I trust that some day the language of Types
will be more read and understood by us than it has been for
centuries ; and when this language, a better one than either
Greek or Latin, is again recognized amongst us, we shall find,
or remember, that as the other visible elements of the universe
— its air, its water, and its flame — set forth, in their pure
energies, the life-giving, purifying, and sanctifying influences
of the Deity upon His creatures, so the earth, in its purity,
sets forth His eternity and His TKUTH. I have dwelt above
on the historical language of stones; let us not forget this,
which is their theological language ; and, as *we would not
wantonly pollute the fresh waters when they issue, forth in
their clear glory from the rock, nor stay the mountain winds
into pestilential stagnancy, nor mock the sunbeams with arti-
ficial and ineffective light ; so let us not by our own base and
barren falsehoods, replace the crystalline strength and burning
color of the earth from which we were born, and to which we
must return ; the earth which, like our own bodies, though
dust in its degradation, is full of splendor when God's hand
gathers its atoms ; and which was for ever sanctified by Him,
as the symbol no less of His love than of His truth, when He
bade the high priest bear the names of the Children of Israel
on the clear stones of the Breastplate of Judgment.
CHAPTEK II.
ROMAN RENAISSANCE.
§ i. OF all the buildings in Venice, later in date than the
final additions to the Ducal Palace, the noblest is, beyond all
question, that which, having been condemned by its propri-
etor, not many years ago, to be pulled down and sold for the
value of its materials, was rescued by the Austrian govern-
ment, and appropriated — the government officers having no
other use for it — to the business of the Post-Office ; though
still known to the gondolier by its ancient name, the Casa
Grimani. It is composed of three stories of the Corinthian
order, at once simple, delicate, and sublime ; but on so colossal
a scale, that the three-storied palaces on its right and left only
reach to the cornice which marks the level of its first floor. Yet
'it is not at first perceived to be so vast ; and it is only when
some expedient is employed to hide it from the eye, that by
the sudden dwarfing of the whole reach of the Grand Canal,
which it commands, we become aware that it is to the majesty
of the Casa Grimani that the Rialto itself, and the whole
group of neighboring buildings, owe the greater part of their
impressiveness. Kor is the finish of its details less notable
than the grandeur of their scale. There is not an erring line,
nor a mistaken proportion, throughout its noble front ; and
the exceeding fineness of the chiselling gives an appearance of
lightness to the vast blocks of stone out of whose perfect union
that front is composed. The decoration is sparing, bat deli-
cate : the first story only simpler than the rest, in that it has
pilasters instead of shafts, but all with Corinthian capitals, rich
in leafage, and fruited delicately ; the rest of the walls flat and
smooth, and the mouldings sharp and shallow, so that the bole
II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 33
shafts look like crystals of beryl running through a rock of
quartz.
§ n. This palace is the principal type at Yenice, and one of
the best in Europe, of the central architecture of the Renais-
sance schools; that carefully studied and perfectly executed
architecture to which those schools owe their principal claims
to our respect, and which became the model of most of the
important works subsequently produced by civilized nations.
I have called it the Roman Renaissance, because it is founded,
both in its principles of superimposition, and in the style of
its ornament, upon the architecture of classic Rome at its best
period. The revival of Latin literature both led to its adop-
tion, and directed its form ; and the most important example
of it which exists is the modern Roman basilica of St. Peter's.
It had, at its Renaissance or new birth, no resemblance either
to Greek, Gothic, or Byzantine forms, except in retaining the
use of the round arch, vault, and dome; in the treatment of
all details, it was exclusively Latin ; the last links of connexion
with mediaeval tradition having been broken by its builders in
their enthusiasm for classical art, and the forms of true Greek
or Athenian architecture being still unknown to them. The
study of these noble Greek forms has induced various modifi-
cations of the Renaissance in our own times; but the con-
ditions which are found most applicable to the uses of modern
life are still Roman, and the entire style may most fitly be
expressed by the term " Roman Renaissance."
§ in. It is this style, in its purity and fullest form, — repre-
sented by such buildings as the Casa Grimani at Yenice (built
by San Micheli), the Town Hall at Yicenza (by Palladio), St.
Peter's at Rome (by Michael Angelo), St. Paul's and White-
hall in London (by Wren and Inigo Jones), — which is the true
antagonist of the Gothic school. The intermediate, or corrupt
conditions of it, though multiplied over Europe, are no longer
admired by architects, or made the subjects of their study ;
but the finished work of this central school is still, in most
cases, the model set before the student of the nineteenth cen-
tury, as opposed to those Gothic, Roinanesque,xor Byzantine
34 THIRD PERIOD.
forms which have long been considered barbarous, and are so
still by most of the leading men of the day. That they are,
on the contrary, most noble and beautiful, and that the antag-
onistic Renaissance is, in the main, unworthy and unadmir-
able, whatever perfection of a certain kind it may possess, it
was my principal purpose to show, when I first undertook the
labor of this work. It has been attempted already to put
before the reader the various elements which unite in the
Nature of Gothic, and to enable him thus to judge, not
merely of the beauty of the forms which that system has
produced already, but of its future applicability to the wants
of mankind, and endless power over their hearts. I would
now endeavor, in like manner, to set before the reader the
Nature of Renaissance, and thus to enable him to compare the
two styles under .the same light, and with the same enlarged
view of their relations to the intellect, and capacities for the
service, of man.
§ iv. It will not be necessary for me to enter at length into
any examination of its external form. It uses, whether for its
roofs of aperture or roofs proper, the low gable or circular
arch : but it differs from Romanesque work in attaching great
importance to the horizontal lintel or architrave above the
arch ; transferring the energy of the principal shafts to the
supporting of this horizontal beam, and thus rendering the
arch a subordinate, if not altogether a superfluous, feature.
The type of this arrangement has been given already at c, Fig.
XXX YL, p. 145, Yol. I. : and I might insist at length upon
the absurdity of a construction in which the shorter shaft,
which has the real weight of wall to carry, is split into two
by the taller one, which' 'has nothing to carry at all, — that
taller one being strengthened, nevertheless, as if the whole
weight of the building bore upon it ; and on the ungraceful-
ness, never conquered in any Palladian work, of the two half-
capitals glued, as it were, against the slippery round sides of
the central shaft. But it is not the form of this architecture
against which I would plead. Its defects are shared by many
of the noblest forms of earlier building, and might have been
I. PRIDE OP SCIENCE. II. KOMAN" HENAISSANCE. 35
entirely atoned for by excellence of spirit. But it is the moral
nature of it which is corrupt, and which it must, therefore, be
our principal business to examine and expose.
§ v. The moral, or immoral, elements which unite to form
the spirit of Central Renaissance architecture are, 1 believe, in
the main, two, — Pride and Infidelity ; but the pride resolves
itself into three main branches, — Pride of Science, Pride of
State, and Pride of System : and thus we have four separate
mental conditions which must be examined successively.
§ vi. 1. PRIDE OF SCIENCE. It would have been more
charitable, but more confusing, to have added another element
to our list, namely the Love of Science ; but the love is in-
cluded, in the pride, and is usually so very subordinate an ele-
ment that it does not deserve equality of nomenclature. But,
whether pursued in pride or in affection (how far by either we
shall see presently), the first notable characteristic of the Re-
naissance central school is its introduction of accurate knowl-
edge into all its work, so far as it possesses such knowledge ;
and its evident conviction, that such science is necessary to the
excellence of the work, and is the first thing to be expressed
therein. So that all the forms introduced, even in its minor
ornament, are studied with the utmost care ; the anatomy of
all animal structure is thoroughly understood and elaborately
expressed, and the whole of the execution skilful and practised
in the highest degree. Perspective, linear and aerial, perfect
drawing and accurate light and shade in painting, and true
anatomy in all representations of the human form, drawn or
sculptured, are the first requirements in all the work of this
school.
§ vn. Now, first considering all this in the most charitable
light, as pursued from a real love of truth, and not from vanity,
it would, of course, have been all excellent and admirable, had
it been regarded as the aid of art, and not as its essence. But
the grand mistake of the Renaissance schools lay in supposing
that science and art are the same things, and that to advance
in the one was necessarily to perfect the other. "Wliereas they
are,' in reality, things not only different, but so opposed, that
36 THIRD PERIOD. I. PREDE OF SCIENCE.
to advance in the one is, in ninety-nine cases out of the hun-
dred, to retrograde in the other. This is the point to which I
would at present especially bespeak the reader's attention. .
§ YIII. Science and art are commonly distinguished by the
nature of their actions ; the one as knowing, the other as chang-
ing, producing, or creating. But there is a still more important
distinction in the nature of the things they deal with. Science
deals exclusively with things as they are in themselves ; and
art exclusively with things as they affect the human senses and
human soul.* Her work is to portray the appearance of things,
and to deepen the natural impressions which they produce
upon living creatures. The work of science is to substitute
facts for appearances, and demonstrations for impressions.
Both, observe, are equally concerned with truth ; the one with
truth of aspect, the other with truth of essence. Art does not
represent things falsely, but truly as they appear to mankind.
Science studies the relations of things to each other : but art
studies only their relations to man ; and it requires of every-
thing which is submitted to it imperatively this, and only this,
— what that thing is to the human eyes and human heart, what
it has to say to men, and what it can become to them : a field
of question just as much vaster than that of science, as the soul
is larger than the material creation.
§ ix. Take a single instance. Science informs us that the
sun is ninety-five millions of miles distant from, and 111 times
broader than, the earth ; that we and all the planets revolve
round it ; and that it revolves on its own axis in 25 days, 14
hours and 4 minutes. "With all this, art has nothing whatso-
ever to do. It has no care to know anything of this kind.
But the things which it does care to know, are these : that in
the heavens God hath set a tabernacle for the sun, " which js
as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a
* Or, more briefly, science has to do with facts, art with phenomena.
To science, phenomena are of use only -as they lead to facts; and to art
facts are of use only as they lead to phenomena. I use the word "art " here
with reference to the fine arts only, for the lower arts of mechanical pro
duction I should reserve the word "manufacture."
I. PRIDE OP SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 37
strong man to run a race. His going forth is from the end of
the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it, and there is
nothing hid from the heat thereof."
§ x. This, then, being the kind of truth with which art is
exclusively concerned, how is such truth as this to be ascer-
tained and accumulated ? Evidently, and only, by perception
and feeling. Never either by reasoning, or report. Nothing
must come between Nature and the artist's sight ; nothing be-
tween God and the artist's soul. Neither calculation nor hear-
say,— be it the most subtle of calculations, or the wisest of say-
ings,— may be allowed to come between the universe, and the
witness which art bears to its visible nature. The whole value
of that witness depends on its being eye-witness ; the whole
genuineness, acceptableness, and dominion of it depend on the
personal assurance of the man who utters it. All its victory
depends on the veracity of the one preceding word, " Vidi."
The whole function of the artist in the world is to be a
seeing and feeling creature ; to be an instrument of such ten-
derness and sensitiveness, that no shadow, no hue, no line, no
instantaneous and evanescent expression of the visible things
around him, nor any of the emotions which they are capable
of conveying to the spirit which has been 'given him, shall
either be left unrecorded, or fade from the book of record. It
is not his business either to think, to judge, to argue, or to
know. His place is neither in the closet, nor on the bench,
nor at the bar, nor in the library. They are for other men
and other work. He may think, in a by-way ; reason, now and
then, when he has nothing better to do ; know, such fragments
of knowledge as he can gather without stooping, or reach with-
out pains ; but none of these things are to be his care. The
work of his life is to be two-fold only : to see, to feel.
§ xi. Nay, but, the reader perhaps pleads with me, one of
the great uses of knowledge is to open the eyes ; to make
things perceivable which never would have been seen, unless
first they had been known.
Not so. This could only be said or believed by those • who
do not know what the perceptive faculty of a great artist is, in
38 THIRD PERIOD.
I. PKIDE OP SCIENCE.
comparison with that of other men. There is no great painter,
no great workman in any art, but he sees more with the glance
of a moment than he could learn by the labor of a thousand
hours. God has made every man fit for his work ; He has
given to the man whom he^ means for a student, the reflective,
logical, sequential faculties ; and to the man whom He means
for an artist, the perceptive, sensitive, retentive faculties. And
neither of these men, so far from being able to do the other's
work, can even comprehend the way in which it is done. The
student has no understanding of the vision, nor the painter of
the process ; but chiefly the student has no idea of the colossal
grasp of the true painter's vision and sensibility.
The labor of the whole Geological Society, for the last fifty
years, has but now arrived at the ascertainment of those truths
respecting mountain form which Turner saw and expressed
with a few strokes of a camel's hair pencil fifty years ago, when
he was a boy. The knowledge of all the laws of the planetary
system, and of all the curves of the motion of projectiles, would
never enable the man of science to draw a waterfall or a wave ;
and all the members of Surgeons' Hall helping each other
could not at this moment see, or represent, the natural move-
ment of a human body in vigorous action, as a poor dyer's son
did two hundred years ago.*
§ xn. But surely, it is still insisted, granting this peculiar
faculty to the painter, he will still see more as he knows more,
and the more knowledge he obtains, therefore, the better. No ;
not even so. It is indeed true, that, here and there, a piece of
knowledge will enable' the eye to detect a truth which might
otherwise have escaped it ; as, for instance, in watching a sun-
rise, the knowledge of the true nature of the orb may lead the
painter to feel more profoundly, and express more fully, the
distance between the bars of cloud that cross it, and the sphere
of flame that lifts itself slowly beyond them into the infini
heaven. But, for one visible truth to which knowledge th
opens the eyes, it seals them to a thousand : that is to say,
*Tintoret.
I. PRIDE OF seiEXCti. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 39
the knowledge occur to the mind so as to occupy its powers of
contemplation at the moment when the sight work is to be
done, the mind retires inward, fixes itself upon the known fact,
and forgets the passing visible ones ; and a moment of such
forgetf ulness loses more to the painter than a day's thought
can gain. This is no new or strange assertion. Every person
accustomed to careful reflection of any kind, knows that . its
natural operation is to close his eyes to the external world.
While he is thinking deeply, he neither sees nor feels, even
though naturally he may .possess strong powers of sight and
emotion. He who, having journeyed all day beside the Leman
Lake, asked of his companions, at evening, where it was,* prob-
ably was not wanting in sensibility ; but he was generally a
thinker, not a perceiver. And this instance is only an extreme
one of the effect which, in all cases, knowledge, becoming a
subject of reflection, produces upon the sensitive faculties. It
must be but poor and lifeless knowledge, if it has no tendency
to force itself forward, and become ground for reflection, in
despite of the succession of external objects. It will not obey
their succession. The first that comes gives it food enough
for its day's work ; it is its habit, its duty, to cast the rest aside,
and fasten upon that. The first thing that a thinking and
knowing man sees in the course of the day, he will not easily
quit. It is not his way to quit anything without getting to the
bottom of it, if possible. But the artist is bound to receive all
things on the broad, white, lucid field of his soul, not to grasp
at one. For instance, as the knowing and thinking man
watches the sunrise, he sees something in the color of a ray, or
the change of a cloud, that is new to him ; and this he follows
out forthwith into a labyrinth of optical and pneumatical laws,
perceiving no more clouds nor rays all the morning. But the
painter must catch all the rays, all the colors that come, and see
them all truly, all in their real relations and succession ; there-
fore, everything that occupies room in his mind he must cast
* St. Bernard.
40 THIRD PERIOD.
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE.
aside for the time, as completely as may be. The thoughtful
man is gone far away to seek ; but the perceiving man must
sit still, and open his heart to receive. The thoughtful man is
knitting and sharpening himself into a two-edged sword, where-
with to pierce. The perceiving man is stretching himself into
a four-cornered sheet wherewith to catch. And all the breadth
to which he can expand himself, and all the white emptiness
into which he can blanch himself, will not be enough to receive
what God has to give him.
§ xiu. "What, then, it will be indignantly asked, is an
utterly ignorant and unthinking man likely to make the best
artist ? No, not so neither. Knowledge is good for him so
long as he can keep it utterly, servilely, subordinate to his own
divine work, and trample it under his feet, and out of his way,
the moment it is likely to entangle him.
And in this respect, observe, there is an enormous differ-
ence between knowledge and education. An artist need not
be a learned man, in all probability it will be a disadvantage
to him to become so ; but he ought, if possible, always to be
an educated man : that is, one who has understanding of his
own uses and duties in the world, and therefore of the general
nature of the things done and existing in the world ; and who
has so trained himself, or been trained, as to turn to the best
and most courteous account whatever faculties or knowledge
he has. The mind of an educated man is greater than the
knowledge it possesses ; it is like the vault of heaven, encom-
passing the earth which lives and flourishes beneath it : but the
mind of an educated and learned man is like a caoutchouc band,
with an everlasting spirit of contraction in it, fastening to-
gether papers which it cannot open, and keeps others from
opening.
Half our artists are ruined for want of education, and by
the possession of knowledge ; the best that I have known have
been educated, and illiterate. The ideal of an artist, however,
is not that he should be illiterate, but well read in the best
books, and thoroughly high bred, both in heart and in bearing.
r. PRIDE OF SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 41
In a word, he should be fit for the best society, and sTiould
keep out of it*
§ xiv. There are, indeed, some kinds of knowledge with
which an artist ought to be thoroughly furnished ; those, for
instance, which enable him to express himself ; for this knowl-
edge relieves instead of encumbering his mind, and permits
it to attend to its purposes instead of wearying itself about
means. The whole mystery of manipulation and manufacture
should be familiar to the painter from a child. He should
know the chemistry of all colors and materials whatsoever, and
should prepare all his colors himself, in a little laboratory of
his own. Limiting his chemistry to this one object, the
amount of practical science necessary for it, and such acci-
dental discoveries as might fall in his way in the course of his
work, of better colors or better methods of preparing them,
would be an infinite refreshment to his mind ; a minor subject
of interest to which it might turn when jaded with comfortless
labor, or exhausted with feverish invention, and yet which
would never interfere with its higher functions, when it chose
to address itself to them. Even a considerable amount of
manual labor, sturdy color-grinding and canvas-stretching,
would be advantageous ; though this kind of work onght to
be in great part done by pupils. For it is one of the condi-
tions of perfect knowledge in these matters, that every great
master should have a certain number of pupils, to whom he is
to impart all the knowledge of materials and means which he
himself possesses, as soon as possible ; so that, at any rate, by
the time they are fifteen years old, they may know all that he
knows himself in this kind ; that is to say, all that the world
of artists know, and his own discoveries besides, and so never
be troubled about methods any more. Not that the knowledge
even of his own particular methods is to be of purpose confined
* Society always has a destructive influence upon an artist: first by its
sympathy with his meanest powers; secondly, by its chilling want of under-
standing of his greatest; and, thirdJy, by its vain occupation of his time
and thoughts. Of course a painter of men must be among men; but it
ought to be as a watcher, not as a companion.
42 THIRD PERIOD. I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE.
to himself and his pupils, but that necessarily it must be so in
some degree ; for only those who see him at work daily can
understand his small and multitudinous ways of practice.
These cannot verbally be explained to everybody, nor is it
needful that they should, only let them be concealed from
nobody who cares to see them ; in which case, of course, his
attendant scholars will know them best. But all that can be
made public in matters of this kind should be so with all speed,
every artist throwing his discovery into the common stock, and
the whole body of artists taking such pains in this department
of science as that there shall be no unsettled questions
about any known material or methpd : that it shall be an
entirely ascertained and indisputable matter which is the best
white, and which the best brown; which the strongest can-
vas, and safest varnish ; and which the shortest and most per-
fect way of doing everything known up to that time : and if
any one discovers a better, he is to make it public forthwith.
All of them taking care to embarrass themselves with no theo-
ries or reasons for anything, but to work empirically only : it
not being in any wise their business to know whether light
moves in rays or in waves ; or whether the blue rays of the
spectrum move slower or faster than the rest ; but simply to
know how many minutes and seconds such and such a powder
must be calcined, to give the brightest blue.
§ xv. Now it is perhaps the most exquisite absurdity of the
whole Renaissance system, that while it has encumbered the
artist with every species of knowledge that is of no use to him,
this one precious and necessary knowledge it has utterly lost.
There is not, I believe, at this moment, a single question which
could be put respecting, pigments and methods, on which the
body of living artists would agree in their answers. The lives
of artists are passed in fruitless experiments ; fruitless, because
undirected by experience and uncommunicated in their resul
Every man has methods of his own, which he knows to
insufficient, and yet jealously conceals from his fellow-work
men : every colorman has materials of his own, to which it
rare that the artist can trust : and in the very front of the maj
I. PREDE OF SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 43
tic advance of chemical science, the empirical science of 'the
artist has been annihilated, and the days which should have led
us to higher perfection are passed in guessing at, or in mourn-
ing over, lost processes ; while the so-called Dark ages, possess-
ing no more knowledge of chemistry than a village herbalist
does now, discovered, established, and put into daily practice
such methods of operation as have made their work, at this
day, the despair of all who look upon it.
§ xvi. And yet even this, to the painter, the safest of
sciences, and in some degree necessary, has its temptations,
and capabilities of abuse. For the simplest means are always
enough for a great man ; and when once he has obtained a few
ordinary colors, which he is sure will stand, and a white sur-
face that will not darken, nor moulder, nor rend, he is master
of the world, and of his fellow-men. And, indeed, as if in
these times we were bent on furnishing examples of every
species of opposite error, while we have suffered the traditions
to escape us of the simple methods of doing simple things,
•which are enough for all the arts, and to all the ages, we have
set ourselves to discover fantastic modes of doing fantastic
things, — new mixtures and manipulations of metal, and porce-
lain, and leather, and paper, and every conceivable condition
of false substance and cheap work, to our own infinitely mul-
tiplied confusion, — blinding ourselves daily more and more to
the great, changeless, and inevitable truth, that there is but
one goodness in art ; and that is one which the chemist cannot
prepare, nor the merchant cheapen, for it comes only of a rare
human hand, and rare human soul.
§ xvn. Within its due limits, however, here is one branch
of science which the artist may pursue ; and, within limits still
more strict, another also, namely, the science of the appear-
ances of things as they have been ascertained and registered
by his fellow-men. For no day passes but some visible fact is
pointed out to us by others, which, without their help, we
should not have noticed ; and the accumulation and generali-
zation of visible facts have formed, in the succession of ages,
the sciences of light and shade, and perspective, linear and
44 THIKD PERIOD.
I. PIUDE OF SCIENCE.
aerial : so that the artist is now at once put in possession of
certain truths respecting the appearances of things, which, so
pointed out to him, any man may in a few days understand
and acknowledge ; but which, without aid, he could not prob-
ably discover in his lifetime. I say, probably could not, be-
cause the time which the history of ant shows us to have been
actually occupied in the discovery and systematization of such
truth, is no measure of the time necessary for such discovery.
The lengthened period which elapsed between the earliest and
the perfect developement of the science of light (if I may so
call it) was not occupied in the actual effort to ascertain its
laws, but in acquiring the disposition to make that effort. It
did not take five centuries to find out the appearance of natural
objects ; but it took five centuries to make people care about
representing them. An artist of the twelfth century did not
desire to represent nature. His work was symbolical and
ornamental. So long as it was intelligible and lovely, he had
no care to make it like nature. As, for instance, when an old
painter represented the glory round a saint's head by a bur-
nished plate of pure gold, he had no intention of imitating an
effect of light. He meant to tell the spectator that the figure
so decorated was a saint, and to produce splendor of effect by
the golden circle. It was no matter to him what light was
like. So soon as it entered into his intention to represent the
appearance of light, he was not long in discovering the natural
facts necessary for his purpose.
§ xvni. But, this being fully allowed, it is still true that
the accumulation of facts now known respecting visible phe-
nomena, is greater than any man could hope to gather for him-
self, and that it is well for him to be made acquainted witl
them ; provided always, that he receive them only at the
true value, and do not suffer himself to be misled by them.
say, at their true value ; that is, an exceedingly small one. All
the information which men can receive from the accumulated
experience of others, is of no use but to enable them more
quickly and accurately to see for themselves. It will in no
wise take the place of this personal sight. Nothing can be
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 45
done well in art, except by vision. Scientific principles and
experiences are helps to the eye, as a microscope is ; and they
are of exactly as much use without the eye. No science of
perspective, or of anything else, will enable us to draw the
simplest natural line accurately, unless we see it and feel it.
Science is soon at her wits' end. All the professors of per-
spective in Europe, could not, by perspective, draw the line of
curve of a sea beach ; nay, could not outline one pool of the
quiet water left among the sand. The eye and hand can do it,
nothing else. All the rules of aerial perspective that ever
were written, will not tell me how sharply the pines on the hill-
top are drawa at this moment on the sky. I shall know if I
see them, and love them ; not till then. I may study the laws
of atmospheric gradation for fourscore years and ten, and I
shall not be able to draw so much as a brick-kiln through its
own smoke, unless I look at it ; and that in an entirely humble
and unscientific manner,, ready to see all that the smoke, my
master, is ready to show me, and expecting to see nothing
more.
§ xix. So that all the knowledge a man has must be held
cheap, and neither trusted nor respected, the moment he comes
face to face with Nature. If it help him, well ; if not, but, on
the contrary, thrust itself upon him in an impertinent and con-
tradictory temper, and venture to set itself in the slightest de-
gree in opposition to, or comparison with, his sight, let it be
disgraced forthwith. And the slave is less likely to take too
much upon herself, if she has not been bought for a high
price. All the knowledge an artist needs, will, in these days,
come to him almost without his seeking ; if he has far to look
for it, he may be sure he does not want it. Prout became
Prout, without knowing a single rule of perspective to the end
of his days ; and all the perspective in the Encyclopaedia will
never produce us another Prout.
§ xx. And observe, also, knowledge is not only very often
unnecessary, but it is often untrustworthy. It is inaccurate,
and betrays us where the eye would have been true to us. Let
us take the single instance of the knowledge of aerial perspe:-
46 THIRD PERIOD.
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE.
tive, of which the moderns are so proud, and see how it betrays
us in various ways. First by the conceit of it, which often
prevents our enjoying work in whicli higher and better things
were thought of than effects of mist. The other day I showed
a fine impression of Albert Durer's u St. Hubert " to a modern
engraver, who had never seen it nor any other of Albert
Durer's works. He looked at it for a minute contemptuously,
then turned away : " Ah, I see that man did not know much
about aerial perspective !" All the glorious work and thought
of the mighty master, a.11 the redundant landscape, the living
vegetation, the magnificent truth of line, were dead letters to
him, because he happened to have been taught gne particular
piece of knowledge which Durer despised.
§ xxi. But not only in the conceit of it, but in the inaccu-
racy of it, this science betrays us. Aerial perspective, as given
by the modern artist, is, in nine cases out of ten, a gross and
ridiculous exaggeration, as is demonstrable in a moment. The
effect of air in altering the hue and depth of color is of course
great in the exact proportion of the volume of air between the
observer and the object. It is not violent within the first few
yards, and then diminished gradually, but it is equal for each
foot of interposing air. Now in a clear day, and clear climate,
such as that generally presupposed in a work of fine color, ob-
jects are completely visible at a distance of ten miles ; visible
in light and shade, with gradations between the two. Take,
then, the faintest possible hue of shadow, or of any color, and
the most violent and positive possible, and set them side by
side. The interval between them is greater than the real dif-
ference (for objects may often be seen clearly much farther
than ten miles, I have seen Mont Blanc at 120) caused by the
ten miles of intervening air between any given hue of the
nearest, and most distant, objects; but let us assume it, in
courtesy to the masters of aerial perspective, to be the real dif-
ference. Then roughly estimating a mile at less than it really
is, also in courtesy to them, or at 5000 feet, we have this differ-
ence between tints produced by 50,000 feet of air. Then, ten
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 47
feet of air will produce the 5000th part of this difference. Let
the reader take the two extreme tints, and carefully gradate
the one into the other. Let him divide this gradated shadow
or color into 5000 successive parts ; and the difference in depth
between one of these parts and the next is the exact amount of
aerial perspective between one object, and another, ten feet
behind it, on a clear day.
§ xxii. Now, in Millais' " Huguenot," the figures were
standing about three feet from the wall behind them ; and the
wise world of critics, which could find no other fault with the
picture, professed to have its eyes hurt by the want of an aerial
perspective, which, had it been accurately given (as, indeed, I
believe it was), would have amounted to the -i^SOOOth, or less
than the 15,000th part of the depth of any given color. It
would be interesting to see a picture painted by the. critics,
upon this scientific principle. The aerial perspective usually
represented is entirely conventional and ridiculous ; a mere
struggle on the part of the pretendedly well-informed, but
really ignorant, artist, to express distances by mist which he
cannot by drawing.
It is curious that the critical world is just as much offended
by the true presence of aerial .perspective, over distances of
fifty miles, and with definite purpose of representing mist, in
the works of Turner, as by the true 'absence of aerial perspec-
tive, over distances of three feet, and in clear weather, in those
of Millais.
§ xxm. " Well but," still answers the reader, " this kind of
error may here and there be occasioned by too much respect
for undigested knowledge ; but, on the whole, the gain is
greater than the loss, and the fact is, that a picture of the Re-
naissance period, or by a modern master, does indeed represent
nature more faithfully than one wrought in the ignorance of
old times." No, not one whit ; for the most part less faithfully.
Indeed, the outside of nature is more truly drawn ; the material
commonplace, which can be systematized, catalogued, and
48 THIKD PERIOD.
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE.
taught to all pains-taking mankind, — forms of ribs and sca-
pulae,* of eyebrows and lips, and curls of hair. Whatever can be
measured and handled, dissected and demonstrated, — in a word,
whatever is of the body only, — that the schools of knowledge
do resolutely and courageously possess themselves of, and por-
tray. But whatever is immeasurable, intangible, indivisible,
and of the spirit, that the schools of knowledge do as certainly
lose, and blot out of their sight, that is to say, all that is worth
art's possessing or recording at all ; for whatever can be arrest-
ed, measured, and systematized, we can contemplate as much
as we will in nature herself. But what we want art to do for
us is to stay what is fleeting, and to enlighten what is incom-
prehensible, to incorporate the things that have no measure,
and immortalize the things that have no duration. The dimly
seen, momentary glance, the flitting shadow of faint emotion,
the imperfect lines of fading thought, and all that by and
through such things as these is recorded on the features of
* I intended in this place to have introduced some special consideration
of the science of anatomy, which I believe to have been in great part the
cause of the decline of modern art; but I have been anticipated by a writer
better able to treat the subject. I have only glanced at his book; and there
is something in the spirit of it which I do not like, and some parts of it are
assuredly wrong; but, respecting anatomy, it seems to me to settle the ques-
tion indisputably, more especially as being written by a master of the science.
I quote two passages, and must refer the reader to the sequel.
" The scientific men of forty centuries have failed to describe so accurately,
so beautifully, so artistically, as Homer did, the organic elements constitut-
ing the emblems of youth and beauty, and the waste and decay which these
sustain by time and age. All these Homer understood better, and has de-
scribed more truthfully than the scientific men of forty centuries. . . .
"Before I approach this qnestion, permit me to make a few remarks on
the pre-historic period of Greece ; that era which seems to have produced
nearly all the great men.
" On looking attentively at the statues within my observation, I cannot
find the slightest foundation for the assertion that their sculptors must have
dissected the human frame and been well acquainted with the human ana-
tomy. They, like Homer, had discovered Nature's secret, and bestowed
their whole attention on the exterior. The exterior they read profoundly,
and studied deeply — the living exterior and the dead. Above all, they avoided
displaying the dead and dissected interior, through the exterior. They had
t. PRIDE otf SC1EKCE. II. ROMAIC ftEtf AtSSAtfCE. 49
man, and all that in man's person and actions, and in the great
natural world, is infinite and wonderful ; having in it that
spirit and power which man may witness, but not weigh ; con-
ceive, but not comprehend ; love, but not limit ; and imagine,
but not define ; — this, the beginning and the end of the aim of
all noble art, we have, in the ancient art, by perception ; and
we have not, in the newer art, by knowledge. Giotto gives it
us, Orcagna gives it us. Angelico, Memmi, Pisano, it matters
not who, — all simple and unlearned men, in their measure and
manner, — give it us ; and the learned men that followed them
give it us not, and we, in our supreme learning, own ourselves
at this day farther from it than ever.
§ xxiv. " Nay," but it is still answered, " this is because
we have not yet brought our knowledge into right use, but
have been seeking to accumulate it, rather than to apply it
wisely to the ends of art. Let us now do this, and we may
achieve all that was done by that elder ignorant art, and infi-
discovered that the interior preseqts hideous shapes, but not forms. Men
during the philosophic era of Greece saw all this, each reading the antique
to the best of his abilities. The man of genius rediscovered the canon of
the ancient masters, and wrought on its principles. The greater number,
as now, unequal to this step, merely imitated and copied those who pre-
ceded them." — Great Artists and Great Anatomists. By R. Knox, M.D.
London, Van Voorst, 1852.
Respecting the value of literary knowledge in general as regards art, the
reader will also do well to meditate on the following sentences from
Hallam's "Literature of Europe;" remembering at the same time what I
have above said, that " the root of all great art in Europe is struck in the
thirteenth century," and that the great time is from 1250 to 1350:
' ' In Germany the tenth century, Leibnitz declares, was a golden age of
learning compared with the thirteenth."
"The writers of the thirteenth century display an incredible ignorance,
uot only of pure idiom, but of common grammatical rules."
The fourteenth century was "not superior to the thirteenth in learning.
. . We may justly praise Richard of Bury for his zeal in collecting
books. But his erudition appears crude, his style indifferent, and his
thoughts superficial."
I doubt the superficialness of the thoughts : at all events, this is not a
character of the time, though it may be of the writer; for this would affect
art more even than literature.
50 THIRD PERIOD. L PRIDE OF SCIENCE.
nitely more." No, not so ; for as soon as we try to put our
knowledge to good use, we shall find that we have much more
than we can use, and that what more we have is an encum-
brance. All our errors in this respect arise from a gross mis-
conception as to the true nature of knowledge itself. We
talk of learned and ignorant men, as if there were a certain
quantity of knowledge, which to possess was to be learned, and
which not to possess was to be ignorant ; instead of consider-
ing that knowledge is infinite, and that the man most learned
in human estimation is just as far from knowing anything as
he ought to know it, as the unlettered peasant. Men are
merely on a lower or higher stage of an eminence, whose sum-
mit is God's throne, infinitely above all ; and there is just as
much reason for the wisest as for the simplest man being
discontented with his position, as respects the real quantity
of knowledge he possesses. And, for both of them, the only
true reasons for contentment with the sum of knowledge they
possess are these : that it is tlie kind of knowledge they need
for their duty and happiness in life; that all they have is
tested and certain, so far as it is in their power ; that all they
have is well in order, and within reach when they need it ;
that it has not cost too. much time in the getting ; that none
of it, once got, has been lost ; and that there is not too much
to be easily taken care of.
§ xxv. Consider these requirements a little, and the evils"
that result in our education and polity from neglecting them.
Knowledge is mental food, and is exactly to the spirit what
food is to the body (except that the spirit needs several sorts
of food, of which knowledge is only one), and it is liable to the
same kind of misuses. It may be mixed and disguised by art,
till it becomes unwholesome ; it may be refined, sweetened,
and made palatable, until it has lost all its power of nourish-
ment ; and, even of its best kind, it may be eaten to surfeiting,
and minister to disease and death.
§ xxvi. Therefore, with respect to knowledge, we are to
reason and act exactly as with respect to food. We no more
live to know, than we live to eat. We live to contemplate,
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 51
enjoy, act, adore ; and we may know all that is to be known
in this world, and what Satan knows in the other, without
being able to do any of these. We are to ask, therefore, first,
is the knowledge we would have fit food for us, good and
simple, not artificial and decorated ? and secondly, how much
of it will enable us best for our work ; and will leave our
hearts light, and our eyes clear ? For no more than that is
to be eaten without the old Eve-sin.
§ xxvu. Observe, also, the difference between tasting knowl-
edge, and hoarding it. In this respect it is also like food ;
since, in some measure, the knowledge of all men is laid up in
granaries, for future use ; much of it is at any given moment
dormant, not fed upon or enjoyed, but in store. And by all
it is to be remembered, that knowledge in this form may be
kept without air till it rots, or in such unthreshed disorder that
it is of no use ; and that, however good or orderly, it is still
only in being tasted that it becomes of use ; and that men
may easily starve in their own granaries, mep of science, per-
haps, most of all, for they are likely to seek accumulation of
their store, rather than nourishment from it. Yet let it not
"be thought that I would undervalue them. The good and
great among them are like Joseph, to whom all nations sought
to buy corn ; or like the sower going forth to sow beside all
waters, sending forth thither the feet of the ox and the ass :
only let us remember that this is not all men's work. We are
not intended to be all keepers of granaries, nor all to be meas-
ured by the filling of a storehouse ; but many, nay, most of
us, are to receive day by day our daily bread, and shall be
as well nourished and as fit for our labor, and often, also, fit
for nobler and more divine labor, in feeding from the barrel
of meal that does not waste, and from the cruse of oil that
does not fail, than if our bams were filled with plenty, and our
presses bursting out with new wine.
§ xxviii. It is for each man to find his own measure in this
matter ; in great part, also, for others to find it for him, while
he is yet a youth. And the desperate evil of the whole Re-
naissance svstem is, that all idea of measure i« therein forgot-
52 THIRD PERIOD. x. PRIDE OP SCIENCE
ten, that knowledge is thought the one and the only good,
and it is never inquired whether men are vivified by it or
paralyzed. Let us leave figures. The reader may not believe
the analogy I have been pressing so far ; but let him consider
the subject in itself, let him examine the effect of knowledge
in his own heart, and see whether the trees of knowledge and
of life are one now, any more than in Paradise. He must fee]
that the real animating power of knowledge is only in the
moment of its being first received, when it fills us with won-
der and joy ; a joy for which, observe, the previous ignorance
is just as necessary as the, present knowledge. That man is
always happy who is in the presence of something which he
cannot know to the full, which he is always going on to know.
This is the necessary condition of a finite creature with
divinely rooted and divinely directed intelligence ; this, there-
fore, its happy state, — but observe, a state, not of triumph or
joy in what it knows, but of joy rather in the continual dis
co very of new ignorance, continual self-abasement, continual
astonishment. Once thoroughly our own, the knowledge
ceases to give us pleasure. It may be practically useful to us,
it may be good for others, or good for usury to obtain more;*
but, in itself, once let it be thoroughly familiar, and it is dead.
The wonder is gone from it, and all the fine color which it had
when first we drew it up out of the infinite sea. And what
does it matter how much or how little of it we have laid aside,
when our only enjoyment is still in the casting of that deep
sea line \ What docs it matter ? Nay, in one respect, it
matters much, and not to our advantage. For one effect of
knowledge is to deaden the force of the imagination and the
original energy of the wljole man : under the weight of his
knowledge he cannot move so lightly as in the days of his
simplicity. The pack-horse is furnished for the journey, the
war-horse is armed for war ; but the freedom of the field and
the lightness of the limb are lost for both. Knowledge is, at
best, the pilgrim's burden or the soldier's panoply, often a
weariness to them both : and the Renaissance knowledge is
like the Renaissance armor of plate, binding and cramping the
I. PRIDE OP SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSAKCE. 53
human form; while all good knowledge is like the cru-
sader's chain mail, which throws itself into folds with the body,
yet it is rarely so forged as that the clasps and rivets do not
gall us. All men feel this, though they do not think of it,
nor reason out its consequences. They look back to the days
of childhood as of greatest happiness, because those were the
days of greatest wonder, greatest simplicity, and most vigor-
ous imagination. And the whole difference between a man of
genius and other men, it has been said a thousand times, and
most truly, is that the first remains in great part a child, see-
ing with the large eyes of children, in perpetual wonder, not
conscious of much knowledge, — conscious, rather, of infinite
ignorance, and yet infinite power ; a fountain of eternal admi-
ration, delight, and creative force within him meeting the
ocean of visible and governable things around him.
That is what we have to make men, so far as we may. All
are to be men of genius in their degree, — rivulets or rivers, it
does not matter, so that the souls be clear and pure ; not dead
walls encompassing dead heaps of things known and num-
bered, but running waters in the sweet wilderness of things
unnumbered and unknown, conscious only of the living banks,
on which they partly refresh and partly reflect the flowers,
and so pass on.
§ xxix. Let each man answer for himself how far his knowl-
edge has made him this, or how far it is loaded upon him as
the pyramid is upon the tomb. Let him consider, also, how
much of it has cost him labor and time that might have been
spent in healthy, happy action, beneficial to all mankind ;
how many living souls may have been left uncomforted and
unhelped by him, while his own eyes were failing by the mid-
night lamp ; how many warm sympathies have died within
him as he measured lines or counted letters; how many
draughts of ocean air, and steps on mountain-turf, and openr
ings of the highest heaven he has lost for his knowledge ; how
much of that knowledge, so dearly bought, is now forgotten
or despised, leaving only the capacity of wonder less within
him, and, as it happens in a thousand instances, perhaps even
54 THIRD PERIOD.
OP SCIENCE
also the capacity of devotion. And let him, — if, after thus
dealing with his own heart, he can say that his knowledge
has indeed been fruitful to him, — yet consider how many there
are who have been forced by the inevitable laws of modern
education into toil utterly repugnant to their natures, and that
in the extreme, until the whole strength of the young soul
was sapped away ; and then pronounce with fearfulness how
far, and in how many senses, it may indeed be true that the
wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.
§ xxx. Isow all this possibility of evil, observe, attaches to
knowledge pursued for the noblest ends, if it be pursued im-
prudently. I have assumed, in speaking of its effect both on
men generally and on the artist especially, that it was sought
in the true love of it, and with all honesty and directness of
purpose. But this is granting far too much in its favor.
Of knowledge in general, and without qualification, it is said
by the Apostle that " it puffeth up ; " and the father of all
modern science, writing directly in its praise, yet asserts this
danger even in more absolute terms, calling it a " venomous-
ness" in the very nature of knowledge itself:
§ xxxi. There is, indeed, much difference in this respect
between the tendencies of different branches of knowledge ; it
being a sure rale that exactly in proportion as they are interior,
nugatory, or limited in scope, their power of feeding pride is
greater. Thus philology, logic, rhetoric, and the other sciences
of the schools, being for the most part ridiculous an<J trifling,
have so pestilent an effect upon those who are devoted to them,
that their students cannot conceive of any higher sciences than
these, but fancy that all education ends in the knowledge of
words : but the true and great sciences, more especially natural
fiistory, make men gentle and modest in proportion to the
largeness of their apprehension, and just perception of the in-
£niteness of the things they can never know. And this, it
tseems to me, is the principal lesson we are intended to be
caught by the book of Job ; for there Goxl has thrown open to
as the heart of a man most just and holy, and apparently per-
fect in all things possible to human nature except humility.
I. PBIDE OP SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 55
For this lie is tried : and we are shown that no suffering, no
self-examination, however honest, however stern, no searching
out of the heart by its own bitterness, is enough to convince
man of his nothingness before God ; but that the sight of God's
creation will do it. For, when the Deity himself has willed
to end the temptation, and to accomplish in Job that for
which it was sent, He does not vouchsafe to reason with him,
still less does He overwhelm him with terror, or confound him
by laying open before his eyes the book of his iniquities. He
opens before him only the arch of the dayspring, and the foun-
tains of the deep ; and amidst the covert of the reeds, and on
the heaving waves, He bids him watch the kings of the children
of pride, — " Behold now Behemoth, which I made with thee :"
And the work is done.
§ xxxii. Thus, if, I repeat, there is any one lesson in the
whole book which stands forth more definitely than another, it
is this of the holy and humbling influence of natural science
on the human heart. And yet, even here, it is not the science,
but the perception, to which the good is owing; and the
natural sciences may become as harmful as any others, when
they lose themselves in classification and catalogue-making.
Still, the principal danger is with the sciences of words and
methods ; and it was exactly into those sciences that the whole
energy of men during the Renaissance period was thrown.
They discovered suddenly that the world for ten centuries had
been living in an ungrammatical manner, and they made it
forthwith the end of human existence to be grammatical. And
it mattered thenceforth nothing what was said, or what was
done, so only that it was said with scholarship, and done with
system. Falsehood in a Ciceronian dialect had ho opposers ;
truth in patois no listeners. A Roman phrase was thought
worth any number of Gothic facts. The sciences ceased at once
to be anything more than different kinds of grammars, — gram-
mar of language, grammar of logic, grammar of ethics, grammar
of art ; and the tongue, wit, and invention of the human race
were supposed to have found their utmost and most divine
mission in syntax and syllogism, perspective and five orders.
56 TBlBb PERIOD. i. £Rii>K OF SCIENCE.
Of such knowledge as this, nothing but pride could come ;
and, therefore, I have called the first mental characteristic of
the Renaissance schools, the " pride" of science. If they had
reached any science worth the name, they might have loved it ;
but of the paltry knowledge they possessed, they could only be
proud. There was not anything in it capable of being loved.
Anatomy, indeed, then first made a subject of accurate study,
is a true science, but not so attractive as to enlist the affections
strongly on its side : and therefore, like its meaner sisters, it
became merely a ground for pride ; and the one main purpose
of the Renaissance artists, in all their work, was to show how
much they knew.
§ xxxin. There were, of course, noble exceptions ; but
chiefly belonging to the earliest periods of the Renaissance,
when its teaching had not yet produced its full effect. Raphael,
Leonardo, and Michael Angelo were all trained in the old
school ; they all had masters who knew the true ends of art,
and had reached them ; masters' nearly as great as they were
themselves, but imbued with the old religious and earnest
spirit, which their disciples receiving from them, and drinking
at the same time deeply from all the fountains of knowledge
opened in their day, became the world's wonders. Then the
dull wondering world believed that their greatness rose out of
their new knowledge, instead of out of that ancient religious
root, in which to abide was life, from which to be severed was
annihilation. And from that day to this, they have tried to
produce Michael Angelos and Leonardos by teaching the barren
sciences, and still have mourned and marvelled that no more
Michael Angelos came ; not perceiving that those great Fathers
were only able to receive such nourishment because they were
rooted on the rock of all ages, and that our scientific teaching,
nowadays, is nothing more nor less than the assiduous water-
ing of trees whose stems are cut through. Nay, I have even
granted too much in saying that those great men were able to
receive pure nourishment from the sciences ; for my own con-
viction is, and I know it to be shared by most of those who
love Raphael truly, — that he painted best when he knew least.
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 57
Michael Angelo was betrayed, again and again, into such vain
and offensive exhibition of his anatomical knowledge as, to this
day, renders his higher powers indiscernible by the greater
part of men ; and Leonardo fretted his life away in engineer-
ing, so that there is hardly a picture left to bear his name.
But, with respect to all who followed, there can be no question
that the science they possessed was utterly harmful ; serving
merely to draw away their hearts at once from the purposes of
art and the power of nature, and to make, out of the canvas
and marble, nothing more than materials for the exhibition of
petty dexterity and useless knowledge.
§ xxxiv. It is sometimes amusing to watch the naive and
childish way in which this vanity is shown. For instance,
when perspective was first invented, the world thought it a
mighty discovery, and the greatest men it had. in it were as
proud of knowing that retiring lines converge, as if all the
wisdom of Solomon had been compressed into a vanishing
point. And, accordingly, it became nearly impossible for any
one to paint a Nativity, but he must turn the stable and man-
ger into a Corinthian arcade, in order to show his knowledge
of perspective ; and half the best architecture of the time, in-
stead of being adorned with historical sculpture, as of old, was
set forth with bas-relief of minor corridors and galleries, thrown
into perspective.
Now that perspective can be taught to any schoolboy in a
week, we can smile at this vanity. But the fact is, that all
pride in knowledge is precisely as ridiculous, whatever its kind,
or whatever its degree. There is, indeed, nothing of which
man has any right to be proud ; but the very last thing of
which, with any show of reason, he can make his boast is his
knowledge, except only that infinitely small portion of it which
he has discovered for himself. For what is there to be more
proud of in receiving a piece of knowledge from another per-
son, than in receiving a piece of money ? Beggars should not
be proud, whatever kind of alms they receive. Knowledge is
like current coin. A man may have some right to be proud
of possessing it, if he has worked for the gold of it, and assayed
58 THIRD PERIOD.
I. PRIDE OF SCIENCE.
it, and stamped it, so that it may be received of all men as
true ; or earned it fairly, being already assayed : but if lie has
done none of these things, but only had it thrown in his face
by a passer-by, what cause has he to be proud ? And though,
in this mendicant fashion, he had heaped together the wealth
of Croesus, would pride any more, for this, become him, as, in
some sort, it becomes the man who has labored for his fortune,
however small ? So, if a man tells me the sun is larger than
the earth, have I any cause for pride in knowing it ? or, if any
multitude of men tell me any number of things, heaping all
their wealth of knowledge upon me, have I any reason to be
proud under the heap ? And is not nearly all the knowledge
of which we boast in these days cast upon us in this dishonor-
able way ; worked for by other men, proved by them, and then
forced upon us, even against our wills, and beaten into us in
our youth, before we have the wit even to know if it be good
or not? (Mark the distinction between knowledge and
thought.) Truly a noble possession to be proud of! Be
assured, there is no part of the furniture of a man's mind
which he has a right to exult in, but that which he has hewn
and fashioned for himself. He who has built himself a hut on
a desert heath, and carved his bed, and table, and chair out of
the nearest forest, may have some right to take pride in the appli-
ances of his narrow chamber, as assuredly he will have joy in
them. But the man who has had a palace built, and adorned,
and furnished for him, may, indeed, have many advantages
above the other, but he has no reason to be proud of his up-
holsterer's skill ; and it is ten to one if he has half the joy in
his couches of ivory that the other will have in his pallet of
pine.
§ xxxv. And observe how we feel this, in the kind of re-
spect we pay to such knowledge as we are indeed capable of
estimating the value of. When it is our own, and new to us,
we cannot judge of it ; but let it be another's also, and long
familiar to us, and see what value we set on it. Consider how
we regard a schoolboy, fresh from his term's labor. If he be-
gin to display his newly acquired small knowledge to us, and
II. PRIDE OF STjyTE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 59
plume himself thereupon, how soon do we silence him with
contempt ! But it is not so if the schoolboy begins to feel or
see anything. In the strivings of his soul within him he is
our equal ; in his power of sight and thought he stands sepa-
rate 'from us, and may be a greater than we. We are ready to
hear him forthwith. " You saw that ? you felt that ? No
matter for your being a child ; let us hear."
§ xxxvi. Consider that every generation of men stands in
this relation to its successors. It is as the schoolboy: the
knowledge of which it is proudest will be as the alphabet to
those who follow. It had better make no noise about its knowl-
edge ; a time will come when its utmost, in that kind, will be
food for scorn. Poor fools ! was that all they knew ? and be-
hold how proud they were ! But what we see and feel will
never be mocked at. All men will be thankful to us for tell-
ing them that. " Indeed !" they will say, " they felt that in
their day? saw that? Would God we may be like them,
before we go to the home where sight and thought are
not 1"
This unhappy and childish pride in knowledge, then, was
the first constituent element of the Renaissance mind, and it
was enough, of itself, to have cast it into swift decline : but it
was aided by another form of pride, which was above called
the Pride of State ; and which we have next to examine.
§ xxxvii. II. PRIDE OF STATE. It was noticed in the
second volume of " Modern Painters," p. 122, that the princi-
ple which had most power in retarding the modern school of
portraiture was its constant expression of individual vanity and
pride. And the reader cannot fail to have observed that one
of the readiest and commonest ways in which the painter min-
isters to this vanity, is by introducing the pedestal or shaft of
a column, or some fragment, however simple, of Renaissance
architecture, in the background of the portrait. And this is
not merely because such architecture is bolder or grander than,
in general, that of the apartments of a private house. No
other architecture would produce the same eifect in the same
degree. The richest Gothic, the most massive Norman, would
60 THIRD PEEIOD. H\ PRIDE OF STATE.
not produce the same sense of exaltation as the simple and
meagre lines of the Renaissance.
§ XXXYIII. And if we think over this matter a little, we
shall soon feel that in those meagre lines there is indeed an ex-
pression of aristocracy in its worst characters ; coldness, per-
fectness of training, incapability of emotion, want of sympathy
with the weakness of lower men, blank, hopeless, haughty self-
sufficiency. All these characters are written in the Renaissance
architecture as plainly as if they were graven on it in words.
For, observe, all other architectures have something in them
that common men can enjoy ; some concession to the simplici-
ties of humanity, some daily bread for the hunger of the
multitude. Quaint fancy, rich ornament, bright color, some-
thing that shows a sympathy with men of ordinary minds and
hearts ; and this wrought out, at least in the Gothic, with a
rudeness showing that the workman did not mind exposing his
own ignorance if he could please others. But the Renaissance
is exactly the contrary of all this. It is rigid, cold, inhuman ;
incapable of glowing, of stooping, of conceding for an instant.
Whatever excellence it has is refined, high-trained, and deeply
erudite ; a kind which the architect well knows no common
mind can taste. He proclaims it to us aloud. " You cannot
feel my work unless you study Yitrtivius. I will give you no
gay color, no pleasant sculpture, nothing to make you happy ;
for I am a learned man. All the pleasure you can have in
anything I do is in its proud breeding, its rigid formalism, its
perfect finish, its cold tranquillity. I do not work for the
vulgar, only for the men of the academy and the court."
§ xxxix. And the instinct of the world felt this in a
moment. In the new precision and accurate law of the clas-
sical forms, they perceived something peculiarly adapted to
the setting forth of state in an appalling manner : Princes de-
lighted in it, and courtiers. The Gothic was good for God's
worship, but this was good for man's worship. The Gothic
had fellowship with all hearts, and was universal, like nature :
it could frame a temple for the prayer of nations, or shrink
into the poor man's winding stair. But here was an architec-
II. PRIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 61
ture that would not shrink, that had in it no submission, no
mercy. The proud princes and lords rejoiced in it. It was
full of insult to the poor in its every line. It would not be
built of the materials at the poor man's hand ; it would not roof
itself with thatch or shingle, and black oak beams ; it would
not wall itself with rough stone or brick ; it would not pierce
itself with small windows where they were needed ; it would
not niche itself, wherever there was room for it, in the street
corners. It would be of hewn stone ; it would have its win-
dows and its doors, and its stairs and its pillars, in lordly order,
and of stately size ; it would have its wings and its corridors,
and its halls and its gardens, as if all the earth were its own.
And the rugged cottages of the mountaineers, and the fantastic
streets of the laboring burgher were to be thrust out of its
way, as of a lower species.
§ XL. It is to be noted also, that it ministered as much to
luxury as to pride. Not to luxury of the eye, that is a holy
luxury ; Nature ministers to that in her painted meadows, and
sculptured forests, and gilded heavens ; the Gothic builder
ministered to that in his twisted traceries, and deep-wrought
foliage, and burning casements. The dead Renaissance drew
back into its earthliness, out of all that was warm and heavenly ;
back into its pride, out of all that was simple and kind ; back
into its stateliness, out of all that was impulsive, reverent, and
gay. But it understood the luxury of the body ; the terraced
and scented and grottoed garden, with its trickling fountains
and slumbrous shades ; the spacious hall and lengthened corri-
dor for the summer heat ; the well-closed windows, and per-
fect fittings a/id furniture, for defence against the cold ; and
the soft picture, and frescoed wall and roof, covered with the
last lasciviousness of Paganism ; — this is understood and pos-
sessed to the full, and still possesses. This is the kind of
domestic architecture on which we pride ourselves, even to
this day, as an infinite and honorable advance from the rough
habits of our ancestors ; from the time when the king's floor
was strewn with rushes, and the tapestries swayed before the
searching wind in the baron's hall.
62 THIRD PEKIOD.
II. PRIDE OF STATE.
§ XLI. Let us hear two stories of those rougher times.
At the debate of King Edwin with his courtiers and priests,
whether he ought to receive the Gospel preached to him by
Paulinus, one of his nobles spoke as follows :
"The present life, O king! weighed with the time that is
unknown, seems to me like this. When you are sitting at a
feast with your earls and thanes in winter time, and the fire is
lighted, and the hall is warmed, and it rains and snows, and
the storm is loud without, there comes a sparrow, and flies
through the house. It comes in at one door and goes out at
the other. While it is within, it is not touched by the winter's
storm ; but it is but for the twinkling of an eye, for from
winter it comes and to winter it returns. So also this life of
man endureth for a little space ; what goes before or what
follows after, we know not. Wherefore, if this new lore bring
anything more certain, it is fit that we should follow it." *
That could not have happened in a Renaissance building.
The bird could not have dashed in from the cold into the heat,
and from the heat back again into the storm. It would have
had to come up a flight of marble stairs, and through seven
or eight antechambers ; and so, if it had ever made its way
into the presence chamber, out again through loggias and cor-
ridors innumerable. And the truth which the bird brought
with it, fresh from heaven, has, in like manner, to make its
way to the Renaissance mind through many antechambers,
hardly, and as a despised thing, if at all.
§ XLII. Hear another story of those early times.
The king of Jerusalem, Godfrey of Bouillon, at the siege
of Asshur, or Arsur, gave audience to some emirs from Sama-
ria and Naplous. They found him seated on the ground on a
sack of straw. They expressing surprise, Godfrey answered
them : " May not the earth, out of which we came, and which
is to be our dwelling after death, serve us for a seat during
life?"
It is long since such a throne has been set in the reception-
* Churton's "Early English Church." London, 1840.
II. FRIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 63
chambers of Christendom, or such an answer heard from the
lips of a king.
Thus the Renaissance spirit became base both in its absti-
nence and its indulgence. Base in its abstinence ; curtailing
the bright and playful wealth of form and thought, which
filled the architecture of the earlier ages with sources of
delight for their hardy spirit, pure, simple, and yet rich as the
fretwork of flowers and moss, watered by some strong and
stainless mountain stream : and base in its indulgence ; as it
granted to the body what it withdrew from the heart, and
exhausted, in smoothing the pavement for the painless feet,
and softenifig the pillow for the sluggish brain, the powers of
art which once had hewn rough ladders into the clouds of
heaven, and set up the stones by which they rested for houses
of God.
§ XLHI. And just in proportion as this courtly sensuality
lowered the real nobleness of the men whom birth or fortune
raised above their fellows, rose their estimate of their own
dignity, together with the insolence and unkindness of its
expression, and the grossness of the flattery with which it
was fed. Pride is indeed the first and the last among the sins
of men, and there is no age of the world in which it has not
been unveiled in the power and prosperity of the wicked.
But there was never in any form of slavery, or of feudal suprem-
acy, a forgetfulness so total of the common majesty of the
human soul, and of the brotherly kindness due from man to
man, as in the aristocratic follies in the Renaissance. I have
not space to follow out this most interesting and extensive
subject ; but here is a single and very curious example of the
kind of flattery with which architectural teaching was mingled
when addressed to the men of rank of the day.
§ XLIV. In St. Mark's library there is a very curious Latin
manuscript of the twenty-five books of Averulinus, a Florentine
architect, upon the principles of his art. The book was written
in or about 1460, and translated into Latin, and richly illumi-
nated for Corvinus, king of Hungary, about 1483. I extract
from the third book the following passage on the nature of
64 THIRD PERIOD.
II. PRIDE OF STATE.
stones. " As there are three genera of men, — that is to say,
nobles, men of the middle classes, and rustics, — so it appears
that there are of stones. For the marbles and common stones
of which we have spoken above, set forth the rustics. The
porphyries and alabasters, and the other harder stones of
mingled quality, represent the middle classes, if we are to deal
in comparisons : and by means of these the ancients adorned
their temples with incrustations and ornaments in a magnifi-
cent manner. And after these come the chalcedonies and
sardonyxes, &c., which are so transparent that there can be
seen no spot in them.* Thus men endowed with nobility lead
a life in which no spot can be found."
Canute or Coeur de Lion (I name not Godfrey or St. Louis)
would have dashed their sceptres against the lips of a man
who should have dared to utter to them flattery such as this.
But in the fifteenth century it was rendered and accepted as
a matter of course, and the tempers which delighted in it
necessarily took pleasure also in every vulgar or false means,
of taking worldly superiority. And among such false means
largeness of scale in the dwelling-house was of course one of
o o
the easiest and most direct. All persons, however senseless
or dull, could appreciate size : it required some exertion of
intelligence to enter into the spirit of the quaint carving of the
Gothic times, but none to perceive that one heap of stones
was higher than another, f And therefore, while in the exe-
cution and manner of work the Renaissance builders zealously
vindicated for themselves the attribute of cold and superior
learning, they appealed for such approbation as they -needed
from the multitude, to the lowest possible standard of taste ;
* ' ' Quibus nulla macula inest quse non cernatur. Ita viri nobilitate
prsediti earn vitam peragant cui nulla nota possit inviri." The first sentence
is literally, " in which there is no spot that may not be seen." But I imag-
ine the YvTiter meant it as I have put it in the text, else his comparison
does not hold.
f Observe, however, that the magnitude spoken of here and in the fol-
lowing passages, is the finished and polished magnitude sought for the sake
of pomp : not the rough magnitude sought for the sake of sublimity :
respecting which see the " Seven Lamps," chap. iii. § 5, 6, and 8.
H. PRIDE OF STATE. 11. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 65
and while the older workman lavished his labor on the minute
niche and narrow casement, on the doorways ' no higher than
the head, and the contracted angles of the turreted chamber,
the Renaissance builder spared such cost and toil in his detailj
that he might spend it in bringing larger stones from a
distance ; and restricted himself to rustication and five orders,
that he might load the ground with colossal piers, and raise an
ambitious barrenness of architecture, as inanimate as it was
gigantic, above the feasts and follies of the powerful or the
rich. The Titanic insanity extended itself also into ecclesias-
tical design : the principal church in Italy was built with little
idea of any other admirableness than that which was to result
from its being huge ; and the religious impressions of those
who enter it are to this day supposed to be dependent, in a
great degree, on their discovering that they cannot span the
thumbs of the statues which sustain the vessels for holy
water.
§ XLV. It is easy to understand how an architecture which
thus appealed not less to the lowest instincts of dulness than
to the subtlest pride of learning, rapidly found acceptance
with a large body of mankind ; and how the spacious pomp
of the new manner of design came to be eagerly adopted by
the luxurious aristocracies, not only of Yenice, but of the
other countries of Christendom, .now gradually gathering
themselves into that insolent and festering isolation, against
which the cry of the poor sounded hourly in more ominous
unison, bursting at last into thunder (mark where, — first
among the planted walks and plashing fountains of the palace
wherein the Renaissance luxury attained its utmost height in
Europe, Versailles) ; that cry, mingling so much piteousness
with its wrath and indignation, " Our soul is filled with the
scornful reproof of the wealthy, and with the despitefulness
of the proud."
§ XLVI. But of all the evidence bearing upon this subject
presented by the various arts of the fifteenth century, none is
so interesting or so conclusive as that deduced from its tombs.
For, exactly in proportion as the pride of life became more
66 THIRD PERIOD. n. PRIDE OF STATE.
insolent, the fear of death became more servile ; and the dif-
ference in the manner in which the men of early and later
days adorned the sepulchre, confesses a still greater difference
in their manner of regarding death. To those he came as the
comforter and the friend, rest in his right hand, hope in his left ;
to these as the humiliator, the spoiler, and the avenger. And,
therefore, we find the early tombs at once simple and lovely
in adornment, severe and solemn in their expression ; confess-
ing the power, and accepting the peace, of death, openly and
joyfully ; and in all their symbols marking that the hope of
resurrection lay only in, Christ's righteousness ; signed always
with this simple utterance of the dead, " I will lay me down
in peace, and take my rest ; for it is thou, Lord, only that
makest me dwell in safety." But the tombs of the later ages
are a ghastly struggle of mean pride and miserable terror :
the one mustering the statues of the Yirtues about the tomb,
disguising the sarcophagus with delicate sculpture, polishing
the false periods of the elaborate epitaph, and filling with
strained animation the features of the portrait statue ; and
the other summoning underneath, out of the niche or from
behind the curtain, the frowning skull, or scythed skeleton, or
some other more terrible image of the enemy in whose defi-
ance the whiteness of the sepulchre had been set to shine
above the whiteness of the ashes.
§ XLVII. This change in the feeling with which sepulchral
monuments were designed, from the eleventh to the eigh-
teenth centuries, has been common to the whole of Europe.
But, as Yenice is in other respects the centre of the Renais-
sance system, so also she exhibits this change in the manner
of the sepulchral monument under circumstances peculiarly
calculated to teach us its true character. For the severe
guard which, in earlier times, she put upon every tendency to
personal pomp and ambition, renders the tombs of her ancient
monarchs as remarkable for modesty and simplicity as for
their religious feeling ; so .that, in this respect, they are sepa-
rated by a considerable interval from the more costly monu-
ments erected at the same periods to the kings or nobles of
II. PBIDE OP STATE. II. ROHAN RENAISSANCE. G7
other European states. In later times, on the other hand, as
the piety of the Venetians diminished, their pride overleaped
all limits, and the tombs which in recent epochs, were erected
for men who had lived only to impoverish or disgrace the
state, were as much more magnificent than those contempora-
neously erected for the nobles of Europe, as the monuments
for the great Doges had been humbler. When, in addition to
this, we reflect that the art of sculpture, considered as
expressive of emotion, was at a low ebb in Venice in the
twelfth century, and that in the seventeenth she took the lead
in Italy in luxurious work, we shall at once see the chain of
examples through which the change of feeling is expressed,
must present more remarkable extremes here than it can in
any other city ; extremes so startling that their impressive-
ness cannot be diminished, while their intelligibility is greatly
increased, by the large number of intermediate types which
have fortunately been preserved.
It would, however, too much weary the general reader if,
without illustrations, I were to endeavor to lead him step by
step through the aisles of St. John and Paul ; and I shall
therefore confine myself to a slight notice of those features in
sepulchral architecture generally which are especially illustra-
tive of the matter at present in hand, and point out the order
in which, if possible, the traveller should visit the tombs in
Venice, so as to be most deeply impressed with the true char-
acter of the lessons they convey.
§ XLVIII. I have not such an acquaintance with the modes
of entombment or memorial in the earliest ages of Christianity
as would justify me in making any general statement respect-
ing them : but it seems to me that the perfect type of a Chris-
tian tomb was not developed until toward the thirteenth cen-
tury, sooner or later according to the civilization of each
country ; that perfect type consisting in the raised and per-
fectly visible sarcophagus of stone, bearing upon it a recum-
bent figure, and the whole covered by a canopy. Before that
type was entirely developed, and in the more ordinary tombs
contemporary with it, we find the simple sarcophagus, often
68 THIRD PERIOD.
PRIDE OP STATE.
with only a rough block of stone for its lid, sometimes with a
low-gabled lid like a cottage roof, derived from Egyptian
forms, and bearing, either on the sides or the lid, at least a
sculpture of the cross, and sometimes the name of the
deceased, and date of erection of the tomb. In more elabo^
rate examples rich figure-sculpture is gradually introduced ;
and in the perfect period the sarcophagus, even when it does
not bear any recumbent figure, has generally a rich sculpture
on its sides representing an angel presenting the dead, in per-
son and dress as he lived, to Christ or to the Madonna, with
lateral figures, sometimes of saints, sometimes — as in the tombs
of the Dukes of Burgundy at Dijon— of mourners ; but in
Venice almost always representing the Annunciation, the
angel being placed at one angle of the sarcophagus, and the
Madonna at the other. The canopy, in a very simple four-
square form, or as an arch over a recess, is added above the
sarcophagus, long before the life-size recumbent figure appears
resting upon it. By the time that the sculptors had acquired
skill enough to give much expression to this figure, the canopy
attains an exquisite symmetry and richness ; and, in the most
elaborate examples, is surmounted by a statue, generally small,
representing the dead person in the full strength and pride
of life, while the recumbent figure shows him as he lay in
death. And, at this point, the perfect type of the Gothic
tomb is reached.
§ XLIX. Of the simple sarcophagus tomb there are many
exquisite examples both at Yenice and Yerona ; the most
interesting in Yenice are those which are set in the recesses
of the rude brick front of the Church of St. John and Paul,
ornamented only, for the most part, with two crosses set in
circles, and the legend with the name of the dead, and an
" Orate pro anima" in another circle in the centre. And in
this we may note one great proof of superiority in Italian
over English tombs ; the latter being often enriched with
quatrefoils, small shafts, and arches, and other ordinary archi-
tectural decorations, which destroy their seriousness and solem-
nity, render them little more than ornamental, and havt
It. PRIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 69
no religions meaning whatever ; while the Italian sarcophagi
are kept massive, smoth, and gloomy, — heavy-lidded dun-
geons of stone, like rock-tombs, — but bearing on their surface,
sculptured with tender and narrow lines, the emblem of the
cross, not presumptuously nor proudly, but dimly graven
upon their granite, like the hope which the human heart holds,
but hardly perceives in its heaviness.
§ L. Among the tombs in front of the Church of St. John
and Paul there is one which is peculiarly illustrative of the
simplicity of these earlier ages. It is on the left of the
entrance, a massy sarcophagus with low horns as of an altar,
placed in a rude recess of the outside wall, shattered and worn,
and here and there entangled among wild grass and weeds.
Yet it is the tomb of two Doges, Jacopo and Lorenzo Tiepolo,
by one of whom nearly the whole ground was given for the
erection of the noble church in front of which his unprotected
tomb is wasting away. The sarcophagus bears an inscription
in the centre, describing the acts of the Doges, of which the
letters show that it was added a considerable period after the
erection of the tomb : the original legend is still left in other
letters on its base, to this effect,
"Lord James, died 1251. Lord Laurence, died 1288."
At the two corners of the sarcophagus are two angels bearing
censers ; and en its lid two birds, with crosses like crests upon
their heads. For the sake of the traveller in Venice the
reader will, I think, pardon me the momentary irrelevancy of
telling the meaning of these symbols.
§ LT. The foundation of the church of St. John and Paul
was laid by the Dominicans about 1234, under the immediate
protection of the Senate and the Doge Giacomo Tiepolo,
accorded to them in consequence of a miraculous vision
appearing to the Doge ; of which the following account is
given in popular tradition :
" In the year 1226, the Doge Giacomo Tiepolo dreamed a
dream ; and in his dream he saw the little oratory of the
Dominicans, and, behold, the ground all around it (now occu-
70 THIKD PERIOD.
H. PRIDE OF STATE.
pied by the church) was covered with roses of the color of
vermilion, and the air was filled with their fragrance. And in
the midst of the roses, there were seen flying to and fro a
crowd of white doves, with golden crosses upon their heads.
And while the Doge looked, and wondered, behold, two angels
descended from heaven with golden censers, and passing through
the oratory, and forth among the flowers, they filled the
place with the smoke of their incense. Then the Doge heard
suddenly a clear and loud voice which proclaimed, ' This is the
place that I have chosen for my preachers ;' and having heard
it, straightway he awoke and went to the Senate, and
declared to them the vision. Then the Senate decreed that
forty paces of ground should be given to enlarge the monas-
tery ; and the Doge Tiepolo himself made a still larger grant
afterwards."
There is nothing miraculous in the occurrence of such a
dream as this to the devout Doge ; and the fact, of which
there is no doubt, that the greater part of the land on which
the church stands was given by him, is partly a confirmation
of the story. But, whether the sculptures on the tomb were
records of the vision, or the vision a monkish invention from
the sculptures on the tomb, the reader will not, I believe, look
upon its doves and crosses, or rudely carved angels, any more
with disdain ; knowing how, in one way or another, they were
connected with a point -of deep religious belief. .
§ LII. Towards the beginning of the fourteenth century,
in Venice, the recumbent figure begins to appear on the sar-
cophagus, the first dated example being also one of the most
beautiful ; the statue of the prophet Simeon, sculptured upon
the tomb which was to receive his relics in the church dedi-
cated to him under the name of San Simeone Grande. So soon
as the figure appears, the sarcophagus becomes much more
richly sculptured, but always with definite religious purpose.
It is usually divided into two panels, which are filled with
small bas-reliefs of the acts or martyrdom of the patron saints
of the deceased : between them, in the centre, Christ, or the
Virgin and Child, are richly enthroned, under a curtained
II. PUI0E OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 71
canopy; and the two figures representing the Annunciation
are almost always at the angles ; the promise of the Birth of
Christ being taken as at once the ground and the type of the
promise of eternal life to all men.
§ LIII. These figures are always in Venice most rudely
chiselled ; the progress of figure sculpture being there com-
paratively tardy. At Yerona, where the great Pisah school
had strong influence, the monumental sculpture is immeasura-
bly finer ; and, so early as about the year 1335,* the consum-
mate form of the Gothic tomb occurs in the monument of Can
Grande della Scala at Verona. It is set over the portal of the
chapel anciently belonging to the family. The sarcophagus is
sculptured with shallow bas-reliefs, representing (which is rare
in the tombs with which I am acquainted in Italy, unless they
are those of saints) the principal achievements of the warrior's
life, especially the siege of Vicenza and battle of Placenza ;
these sculptures, however, form little more than a chased and
roughened groundwork for the fully relieved statues repre-
senting the Annunciation, projecting boldly from the front of
the sarcophagus. Above, the Lord of Verona is laid in his
long robe of civil dignity, wearing the simple bonnet, con-
sisting merely of a fillet bound round the brow, knotted and
falling on the shoulder. He is laid as asleep ; his arms crossed
upon his body, and his sword by his side. Above him, a bold
arched canopy is sustained by two projecting shafts, and on
the pinnacle of its roof is the statue of the knight on his war-
horse ; his helmet, dragon-winged and crested with the dog's
head, tossed back behind his shoulders, and the broad and
blazoned drapery floating back from his horse's breast, —so
truly drawn by the old workman from the life, that it seems
to wave in the wind, and the knight's spear to shake, and his
marble horse to be evermore quickening its pace, and starting
into heavier and hastier charge, as the silver clouds float past
behind it in the sky.
* Can Grande died in 1329 : we can hardly allow more than five years fo»
the erection of his tomb.
72 THIRD PERIOD. n. PRIDE OF STATE.
§ LTV. Now observe, in this tomb, as much concession is
made to the pride of man as may ever consist with honor,
discretion, or dignity. I do not enter into any question
respecting the character of Can Grande, though there can be
little doubt that he was one of the best among the nobles of
his time ; but that is not to our purpose. It is not the ques-
tion whether his wars were just, or his greatness honorably
achieved ; but whether, supposing them to have been so, these
facts are well and gracefully told upon his tomb. And I
believe there can be no hesitation in the admission of its per-
fect feeling and truth. Though beautiful, the tomb is so little
conspicuous or intrusive, that it serves only to decorate the
portal of the little chapel, and is hardly regarded by the
traveller as he enters. When it is examined, the history of
the acts of the dead is found subdued into dim and minute
ornament upon his coffin; and the principal aim of the monu-
ment is to direct the thoughts to his image as he lies in death,
and to the expression of his hope of resurrection ; while, seen
as by the memory far away, diminished in the brightness of
the sky, there is set the likeness of his armed youth, stately,
as it stood of old, in the front of battle, and meet to be thus
recorded for us, that we may now be able to remember the
dignity of the frame, of which those who once looked upon it
hardly remembered that it was dust.
§ LV. This, I repeat, is as much as may ever be granted,
but this ought always to be granted, to the honor and the affec-
tion of men. The tomb which stands beside that of Can
Grande, nearest it in the little field of sleep, already shows the
traces of erring ambition. It is the tomb of Mastino the
Second, in whose reign be^gan the decline of his family. It is
altogether exquisite as a work of art ; and the evidence of a
less wise or noble feeling in its design is found only in this,
that the image of a virtue, Fortitude, as belonging to the dead,
is placed on the extremity of the sarcophagus, opposite to the
Crucifixion. But for this slight circumstance, of which the
significance will only be appreciated as we examine the series
of later monuments, the composition of this monument of Can
II. PKIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 73
•
Mastino would have been as perfect as its decoration is refined.
It consists, like that of Can Grande, of the raised sarcophagus,
bearing the recumbent statue, protected by a noble four-square
canopy, sculptured with ancient Scripture history. On one
side of the sarcophagus is Christ enthroned, with Can Mastino
kneeling before Him ; on the other, Christ is represented in
the mystical form, half -rising from the tomb, meant, I believe,
to be at once typical of His passion and resurrection. The
lateral panels are occupied by statues of saints. At one ex-
tremity of the sarcophagus is the Crucifixion ; at the other, a
noble statue of Fortitude, with a lion's skin thrown over her
shoulders, its head forming a shield upon her breast, her flow-
ing hair bound with a narrow fillet, and a three-edged sword
in her gauntleted right hand, drawn back sternly behind her
thigh, while, in her left, she bears high the shield of the Scalas.
§ LVI. Close to this monument is another, the stateliest and
most sumptuous of the three ; it first arrests the eye of the
stranger, and long detains it, — a many-pinnacled pile surrounded
by niches with statues of the warrior saints.
It is beautiful, for it still belongs to the noble time, the
latter part of the fourteenth century ; but its work is coarser
than that of the other, and its pride may well prepare us to
learn that it was built for himself, in his own lifetime, by the
man whose statue crowns it, Can Signorio della Scala. Now
observe, for this is infinitely significant. Can Mastino II. was
feeble and wicked, and began the ruin of his house ; his sarcoph-
agus is the first which bears upon it the image of a virtue,
but he lays claim only to Fortitude. Can Signorio was twice
a fratricide, the last time when he lay upon his death-bed : his
tomb bears upon its gables the images of six virtues, — Faith,
Hope, Charity, Prudence, and (I believe) Justice and Forti-
tude.
§ Lvn. Let us now return to Yenice, where, in the second
chapel counting from right to left, at the west end of the
Church of the Frari, there is a very early fourteenth, or per-
haps late thirteenth, century tomb, another exquisite example
of the perfect Gothic form. It is a knight's ; but there is no
74 THIRD -PERIOD.
H. PRIDE OF STATE.
inscription upon it, and his name is unknown. It consists of a
sarcophagus, supported on bold brackets against the chapel
wall, bearing the recumbent figure, protected by a simple can-
opy in the form of a pointed arch, pinnacled by the knight's
crest ; beneath which the shadowy space is painted dark blue,
and strewn with stars. The statue itself is rudely carved ; but
its lines, as seen from the intended distance, are both tender
and masterly. The knight is laid in his mail, only the hands
and face being bare. The hauberk and helmet are of chain-
mail, the armor for the limbs of jointed steel ; a tunic, fitting
close to the breast, and marking the noble swell of it by two
narrow embroidered lines, is worn over the mail ; his dagger is
at his right side ; his long cross-belted sword, not seen by the
spectator from below, at his left. His feet rest on a hound
(the hound being his crest), which looks up towards its master.
In general, in tombs of this kind, the face of the statue is
slightly turned towards the spectator ; in this monument, on
the contrary, it is turned away from him, towards the depth of
the arch : for there, just above the warrior's breast, is carved a
small image of St. J oseph bearing the infant Christ, who looks
down upon the resting figure ; and to tliis image its counte-
nance is turned. The appearance of the entire tomb is as if
the warrior had seen the vision of Christ in his dying moments,
and had fallen back peacefully uppon his pillow, with his eyes
still turned to it, and his hands clasped in prayer.
§ Lvm. On the opposite side of this chapel is another very
lovely tomb, to Duccio degli Alberti, a Florentine ambassador
at Yenice ; noticeable chiefly as being the first in Venice on
which any images of the Virtues appear. We shall return to it
presently, but some account must first be given of the more
important among the other tombs in Venice belonging to the
perfect period. Of these, by far the most interesting, though
not the most elaborate, is that of the great Doge Francesco
Dandolo, whose ashes, it might have been thought, were honor-
able enough to have been permitted to rest undisturbed in the
chapter-house of the Frari, where they were first laid. But,
as if there were not room enough, nor waste houses enough in
H. PKIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 75
the desolate city to receive a few convent papers, tlie monks,
wanting an "archivio," have separated the tomb into three
pieces : the canopy, a simple arch sustained on brackets, still
remains on the blank walls of the desecrated chamber; the
sarcophagus has been transported to a kind of museum of an-
tiquities, established in what was once the cloister of Santa
Maria della Salute ; and the painting which filled the lunette
behind it is hung far out of sight, at one end of the sacristy of
the same church. The sarcophagus is completely charged with
bas-reliefs : at its two extremities are the types of St. Mark
and St. John ; in front, a noble sculpture of the death of
the Virgin ; at the angles, angels holding vases. The whole
space is occupied by the sculpture ; there are no spiral shafts
or panelled divisions ; only a basic plinth below, and crown-
ing plinth above, the sculpture being raised from a deep con-
cave field between the two, but, in order to give piquancy and
picturesqueness to the mass of figures, two small trees are in-
troduced at the head and foot of the Madonna's couch, an oak
and a stone pine.
§ LIX. It was said above,* in speaking of the frequent dis-
putes of the Venetians with the Pontifical power, which in
their early days they had so strenuously supported, that " the
humiliation of Francesco Dandolo blotted out the shame of
Barbarossa." It is indeed well that the two events should be
remembered together. By the help of the Venetians, Alexan-
der III. was enabled, in the twelfth century, to put his foot
upon the neck of the emperor Barbarossa, quoting the words
of the Psalm, " Thou shalt tread upon the lion and the adder."
A hundred and fifty years later, the Venetian ambassador,
Francesco Dandolo, unable to obtain even an audience from
the Pope, Clement V., to whom he had been sent to pray for
a removal of the sentence of excommunication pronounced
against the republic, concealed himself (according to the com-
mon tradition) beneath the Pontiff's dining-table ; and thence
coming out as he sat down to meat, embraced his feet, and ob-
* Vol. I. Chap. L
76 THIRD PERIOD.
II. PRIDE OP STATE.
tained, by tearful entreaties, the removal of the terrible sen-
tence.
I say, " according to the common tradition ;" for there are
some doubts cast upon the story by its supplement. Most of
the Venetian historians assert that Francesco Dandolo's sur-
name of " Dog" was given him first on this occasion, in insult,
by the cardinals ; and that the Venetians, in remembrance of
the grace which his humiliation had won for them, made it a
title of honor to him and to his race. It has, however, been
proved* that the surname was borne by the ancestors of
Francesco Dandolo long before ; and the falsity of this seal
of the legend renders also its circumstances doubtful. But the
main fact of grievous humiliation having been undergone,
admits of no dispute ; the existence of such a tradition at all
is in itself a proof «f its truth ; it was not one likely to be
either invented or received without foundation : and it will be
well, therefore, that the reader should remember, in connection
with the treatment of Barbarossa at the door of the Church
of St. Mark's, that in the Vatican, one hundred and fifty
years later, a Venetian noble, a future Doge, submitted to a
degradation, of which the current report among his people
was, that he had crept on his hands and knees from beneath
the Pontiff's table to his feet, and had been spurned as a " dog"
by the cardinals present.
§ LX. There are two principal conclusions to be drawn from
this : the obvious one respecting the insolence of the Papal
dominion in the thirteenth century ; the second, that there
were probably most deep piety and humility in the character
of the man who could submit to this insolence for the sake of
a benefit to his country. • Probably no motive would have
been strong enough to obtain such a sacrifice from most men,
however unselfish; but it was, without doubt, made easier to
Dandolo by his profound reverence for the Pontifical office ; a
reverence which, however we may now esteem those who
claimed it, could not but have been felt by nearly all good and
* Saasovino, lib. xiii
II. w«DE OF BTATE. II. ROMAN UENAISSANCE. 77
faitliful men at the time of which we are speaking. This is
the main point which I wish the reader to remember as we
look at his tomb, this, and the result of it, — that, some years
afterwards, when he was seated on the throne which his piety
had saved, " there were sixty princes' ambassadors in Venice
at the same time, requesting the judgment of the Senate on
matters of various concernment, so great was the fame of the
uncorrupted justice of the Fathers" *
Observe, there are no virtues on this tomb. Nothing but
religious history or symbols ; the Death of the Virgin in front,
and the types of St. Mark and St. John at the extremities.
§ LXI. Of the tomb of the Doge Andrea Dandolo, in St.
Mark's, I have spoken before. It is one of the first in Venice
which presents, in a canopy, the Pisan idea of angels with-
drawing curtains, as of a couch, to look down upon the dead.
The sarcophagus is richly decorated with flower-work ; the
usual figures of the Annunciation are at the sides ; an en-
throned Madonna in the centre ; and two bas-reliefs, one of
the martyrdom of the Doge's patron saint, St. Andrew, occupy
the intermediate spaces. All these tombs have been richly
colored ; the hair of the angels has here been gilded, their
wings bedropped with silver, and their garments covered with
the most exquisite arabesques. This tomb, and that of St.
Isidore in another chapel of St. Mark's, which was begun by
this very Doge, Andrea Dandolo, and -completed after his
death in 1354, are both nearly alike in their treatment, and
are, on the whole, the best existing examples of Venetian
monumental sculpture.
§ LXII. Of much ruder workmanship, though still most pre-?
cious, and singularly interesting from its quaintness, is a sar-
cophagus in the northernmost chapel, beside the choir of St.
John and Paul, charged with two bas-reliefs and many figures,
but which bears no inscription. It has, however, a shield with
three dolphins on its brackets ; and as at the feet of the Madonna
in its centre there is a small kneeling figure of a Doge, we know
* Tentori, vi. 142, i. 157.
78 THIRD PEEIOD.
H. PKIDK OF STATE.
it to be the tomb of the Doge Giovanni Dolfino, who came to
the throne in 1356.
He was chosen Doge while, as provveditore, he was in Tre-
viso, defending the city against the King of Hungary. The
Venetians sent to the besiegers, praying that their newly
elected Doge might be permitted to pass the Hungarian lines.
Their request was refused, the Hungarians exulting that they
held the Doge of Yenice prisoner in Treviso. But Dolfino,
with a body of two hundred horse, cut his way through their
lines by night, and reached Mestre (Malghera) in safety, where
he was met by the Senate. His bravery could not avert the
misfortunes which were accumulating on the republic. The
Hungarian war was ignominiously terminated by the surrender
of Dalmatia : the Doge's heart was broken, his eyesight
failed him, and he died of the plague four years after he had
ascended the throne.
§ LXIII. It is perhaps on this account, perhaps in conse-
quence of later injuries, that the tomb has neither effigy nor
inscription : that it has been subjected to some violence is
evident from the dentil which once crowned its leaf-cornice
being now broken away, showing the whole front. But,
fortunately, the sculpture of the sarcophagus itself is little
injured.
There are two saints, male and female, at its angles, each
in a little niche ; a Christ, enthroned in the centre, the Doge
and Dogaressa kneeling at his feet ; in the two intermediate
panels, on one side the Epiphany, on the other the Death of
the Yirgin ; the whole supported, as well as crowned, by an
elaborate leaf-plinth. The figures under the niches are rudely
cut, and of little interest. Not so the central group. Instead
of a niche, the Christ is seated under a square tent, or taber-
nacle, formed by curtains running on rods ; the idea, of
course, as usual, borrowed from the Pisan one, but here in-
geniously applied. The curtains are opened in front, showing
those at the back of the tent, behind the seated figure ; the
perspective of the two retiring sides being very tolerably sug-
II. PRIDE OP STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE* 79
gested. Two angels, of half the size of the seated figure,
thrust back the near curtains, and look up reverently to the
Christ ; while again, at their feet, about one third of their
size, and half-sheltered, as it seems, by their garments, are the
two kneeling figures of the Doge and Dogaressa, though so
small and carefully cut, full of life. The Christ raising one
hand as to bless, and holding a book upright and open on the
knees, does not look either towards them or to the angels, but
forward ; and there is a very noticeable effort to represent
Divine abstraction in the countenance : the idea of the three
magnitudes of spiritual being, — the God, the Angel, and the
Man, — is also to be observed, aided as it is by the complete
subjection of the angelic power to the Divine ; for the angels
are in attitudes of the most lowly watchfulness of the face of
Christ, and appear unconscious of the presence of the human
beings who are nestled in the folds of their garments.
§ LXIV. With this interesting but modest tomb of one of
the kings of Venice, it is desirable to compare that of one of
her senators, of exactly the same date, which is raised against
the western wall of the Frari, at the end of the north aisle. It
bears the following remarkable inscription :
" ANNO M C C CL X. PRIMA DIE JULII SEPULTTJRA . DOMINI . SIMONII
DANDOLO . AMADOR . DE . JUSTISIA . E . DESIROSO . DE . ACRESE .
EL . BEN . CHOMUM. "
The " Amador de Justitia" has perhaps some reference to
Simon Dandolo's having been one of the Giunta who con-
demned the Doge Faliero. The sarcophagus is decorated
merely by the Annunciation group, and an enthroned Madonna
with a curtain behind her throne, sustained by four tiny angels,
who look over it as they hold it up ; but the workmanship of
the figures is more than usually beautiful.
§ LXV. Seven years later, a very noble monument was placed
on the north side of the choir of St. John and Paul, to the
Doge Marco Cornaro, chiefly, with respect to our present sub-
ject, noticeable for the absence of religious imagery from *lie
80 THIED PERIOD.
II. PKIDE OF STATE.
sarcophagus, which is decorated with roses only ; three very
beautiful statues of the Madonna and two saints are, however,
set in the canopy above. Opposite this tomb, though about
fifteen years later in date, is the richest monument of the
Gothic period in Venice ; that of the Doge Michele Morosini,
who died in 1382. It consists of a highly florid canopy, — an
arch crowned by a gable, with pinnacles at the flanks, boldly
crocketed, and with a huge finial at the top representing St.
Michael, — a medallion of Christ set in the gable ; under the
arch, a mosaic, representing the Madonna presenting the Doge
to Christ upon the cross ; beneath, as usual, the sarcophagus,
with a most noble recumbent figure of the Doge, his face
meagre and severe, and sharp in its lines, but exquisite in the
form of its small and princely features. .The sarcophagus is
adorned with elaborate wrinkled leafage, projecting in front
of it into seven brackets, from which the statues are broken
away ; but by which, for there can be no doubt that these last
statues represented the theological and cardinal Virtues, we
must for a moment pause.
§ LXVI. It was noticed above, that the tomb of the Floren-
tine ambassador, Duccio, was the first in Venice which pre-
sented images of the Virtues. Its small lateral statues of
Justice and Temperance are exquisitely beautiful, and were, I
have no doubt, executed by a Florentine sculptor ; the whole
range of artistical power and religious feeling being, in Flor-
ence, full half a century in advance of that of Venice. But
this is the first truly Venetian tomb which has the Virtues ;
and it becomes of importance, therefore, to know what was
the character of Morosini.
The reader must recollect, that I dated the commencement
of the fall of Venice from the death of Carlo Zeno, consider-
ing that no state could be held as in decline, which numbered
such a' man amongst its citizens. Carlo Zeno was a candidate
for the Ducal bonnet together with Michael Morosini ; and
Morosini was chosen. It might be anticipated, therefore, that
there was something more than usually admirable or illustrious
in his character. Yet it is difficult to arrive at a just estimate
ir. PRIDE OP STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 81
of it, as the reader will at once understand by comparing tlie
following statements :
§ LXVII. 1. " To him (Andrea Contarini) succeeded Morosini, at the age
of seventy-four years ; a most learned and prudent man, who also reformed
several laws. " — Sansovino, Vite de' Principi.
2. "It was generally believed that, if his reign had been longer, he
•would have dignified the state by many noble laws and institutes; but by
so much as his reign was full of hope, by as much was it short in duration,
for he died when he had been at the head of the republic but four months."
— tjabellico, lib. viii.
3. "He was allowed but a short time to enjoy this high dignity, which
he had so well deserved by his rare virtues, for God called him to Himself
on the 15th of October." — Nuratori, Annali de' Italia.
4. " Two candidates presented themselves ; one was Zeno, the other that
Michael Morosini who, during the war, had tripled his fortune by his
speculations. The suffrages of the electors fell upon him, and he was pro-
claimed Doge on the 10th of June." — Daru, Histoire de Venise, lib. x.
5. " The choice of the electors was directed to Michele Morosini, a noble
of illustrious birth, derived from a stock which, coeval with the republic
itself, had produced the conqueror of Tyre, given a queen to Hungary,
and more than one Doge to Venice. The brilliancy of this descent was
tarnished in the present chief representative of the family by the most
base and grovelling avarice ; for at that moment, in the recent war, at
which all other Venetians were devoting their whole fortunes to the service
of the state, Morosini sought in the distresses of his country an opening for
his own private enrichment, and employed his ducats, not in the assistance
of the national wants, but in speculating upon houses which were brought
to market at a price far beneath their real value, and which, upon the
return of peace, insured the purchaser a fourfold profit. ' What matters
the fall of Venice to me, so as I fall not together with her ? ' was his
selfish and sordid reply to some one who expressed surprise at the trans-
action."— Sketches of Venetian History. Murray, 1831.
§ Lxvm. The writer of the unpretending little history from
which the last quotation is taken has not given his authority
for this statement, and I could not find it, but believed, from
the general accuracy of the book, that some authority might
exist better than Daru's. Under these circumstances, wishing
if possible to ascertain the truth, and to clear the character of
this great Doge from the accusation, if it proved groundless,
I wrote to the Count Carlo Morosini, his descendant, and one
of the few remaining representatives of the ancient noblesse
82 THIRD PERIOD.
PRIDE OP STATE.
of Venice ; one, also, by whom his great ancestral name is
revered, and in whom it is exalted. His answer appears to
me altogether conclusive as to the utter fallacy of the reports
of Daru and the English history. I have placed his letter in
the close of this volume (Appendix 6), in order that the reader
may liimself be the judge upon this point ; and I should not
have alluded to Daru's report, except for the purpose of con-
tradicting it, but that it still appears to me impossible that
any modern historian should have gratuitously invented the
whole story, and that, therefore, there must have been a trace
in the documents which Daru himself possessed, of some scan-
dal of this kind raised by Morosini's enemies, perhaps at the
very time of the disputed election with Carlo Zeno. * The
occurrence of the Virtues upon his tomb, for the first time in
Venetian monumental work, and so richly and conspicuously
placed, may partly have been in public contradiction of such
a floating rumor. But the face of the statue is a more explicit
contradiction still ; it is resolute, thoughtful, serene, and full
of beauty ; and we must, therefore, for once, allow the some'
what boastful introduction of the Virtues to have been per-
fectly just : though the whole tomb is most notable, as fur-
nishing not only the exact intermediate condition in style
between the pure Gothic and its- final Renaissance corruption,
but, at the same time, the exactly intermediate condition of
feeling between the pure calmness of early Christianity, and
the boastful pomp of the Renaissance faithlessness ; for here
we have still the religious humility remaining in the mosaic
of the canopy, which shows the Doge kneeling before the
cross, while yet this tendency to self-trust is shown in the sur-
rounding of the coffin by the Virtues.
§ LXIX. The next tomb by the side of which they appear is
that of Jacopo Cavalli, in the same chapel of St. John and Paul
which contains the tomb of the Doge Delfin. It is peculiarly
rich in religious imagery, adorned by boldly cut types of the
four evangelists, and of two saints, while, on projecting
brackets in front of it, stood three statues of Faith, Hope, and
Charity, now lost, but drawn in Zanotto's work. It is all rich
II. PRIDE OP STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 83
in detail, and its sculptor has been proud of it, thus recording
his name below the epitaph :
"QST OPERA DINTALGIO E PATTO IN PBERA,
UNVENICIAN LAFE CHANOME POLO,
NATO DI JACHOMEL CHATAIAPIERA."
This work of sculpture is done in stone;
A Venetian did it, named Paul,
Son of Jachomel the stone-cutter.
Jacopo Cavalli died in 1384. He was a bold and active
Veronese soldier, did the state much service, was therefore
ennobled by it, and became the founder of the house of the
Cavalli ; but I find no especial reason for the images of the
Virtues, especially that of Charity, appearing at his tomb,
unless it be this : that at the siege of Feltre, in the war against
Leopold of Austria, he refused to assault the city, because the
senate would not grant his soldiers the pillage of the town.
The feet of the recumbent figure, which is in full armor, rest
on a dog, and its head on two lions ; and these animals (neither
of which form any part of the knight's bearings) are said by
Zanotto to be intended to symbolize his bravery and fidelity.
If, however, the lions are meant to set forth courage, it is a
pity they should have been represented as howling.
§ LXX. We must next pause for an instant beside the tomb
of Michael Steno, now in the northern aisle of St. John and
Paul, having been removed there from the destroyed church
of the Servi : first, to note its remarkable . return to the early
simplicity, the sarcophagus being decorated only with two
crosses in quatrefoils, though it is of the fifteenth century,
Steno dying in 1413 ; and, in the second place, to observe the
peculiarity of the epitaph, which eulogises Steno as having
been " amator justitie, pacis, et ubertatis," " a lover of justice,
peace, and plenty." In the epitaphs of this period, the virtues
which are made most account of in public men are those which
were most useful to their country. We have already seen one
example in the epitaph on Simon Dandolo ; and similar expres-
sions occur constantly in laudatory mentions of their later
84 THIRD PERIOD. n. PRIDE OP STATE.
Doges by the Venetian writers. Thus Sansovino of Marco
Cornaro, "Era savio huomo, eloquente, e amava molto la
pace e 1' abbondanza della citta ;" and of Toniaso Mocenigo,
" Huomo oltre modo desideroso della pace."
Of the tomb of this last-named Doge mention has before
been made. Here, as in Morosini's, the images of the Virtues
have no ironical power, although their great conspicuous-
ness marks the increase of the boastful feeling in the treat-
ment of monuments. For the rest, this tomb is the last in
Venice which can be considered as belonging to the Gothic
period. Its mouldings are already rudely classical, and it has
meaningless figures in Roman armor at the angles ; but its
tabernacle above is still Gothic, and the recumbent figure is
very beautiful. It was carved by two Florentine sculptors in
1423.
§ LXXI. Tomaso Mocenigo was succeeded by the renowned
Doge, Francesco Foscari, under whom, it will be remembered,
the last additions were made to the Gothic Ducal Palace ;
additions which, in form only, not in spirit, corresponded to
the older portions ; since, during his reign, the transition took
place which permits us no longer to consider the Venetian
architecture as Gothic at all. He died in 14-57, and his tomb
is the first important example of Renaissance art.
Not, however, a good characteristic example. It is re-
markable chiefly as introducing all the faults of the Renaissance
at an early period, when its merits, such as they are, were yet
undeveloped. Its claim to be rated as a classical composition
is altogether destroyed by the remnants of Gothic feeling
which cling to it here and there in their last forms of degra-
dation ; and of which, now that we find them thus corrupted,
the sooner we are rid the better. Thus the sarcophagus is
supported by a species of trefoil arches ; the bases of the
shafts have still their spurs ; and the whole tomb is covered
by a pediment, with crockets and a pinnacle. We shall find
that the perfect Renaissance is at least pure . in its insipidity,
and subtle in its vice ; but this monument is remarkable as
showing the refuse of one style encumbering the embryo of
II. PRIDE OP STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. §5
another, and all principles of life entangled either "in the swad-
dling clothes or the shroud.
§ LXXII. With respect to our present purpose, however, it
is a monument of enormous importance. We, have to trace,
be it remembered, the pride of state in its <>ra*iual intrusion
upon the sepulchre ; and the consequent an.d cwrelative van-
ishing of the expressions of religious feeling; and heavenly
hope, together with the more and more arrogant setting forth
of the virtues of the dead. Now this tomb is the largest and
most costly we have yet seen ; but its means of religious
expression are limited to a single statue of Christ, small and
used merely as a pinnacle at the top. The; rest of the com-
position is as curious as it is vulgar. The conceit, so often
noticed as having been borrowed from the Pisan school, of
angels withdrawing the curtains of the couch to look down
upon the dead, was brought forward with increasing promi-
nence by every succeeding sculptor ; but, as we draw nearer
to the Renaissance period, we find that the angels become of
less importance, and the curtains of more. With the Pisans,
the curtains are introduced ' as a motive for the angels ; with
the Renaissance sculptors, the angels are introduced merely
as a motive for the curtains, which become every day more
huge and elaborate. In the monument of Mocenigo, they
have already expanded into a tent, with a pole in the centre
of it : and in that of Foscari, for the first time, the angels are
absent altogether • while the curtains are arranged in the form
of an enormous French tent-bed, and are sustained at the
flanks by two diminutive figures in Roman armor ; substituted
for the angels, merely that the sculptor might show his knowl-
edge of classical costume. And now observe how often a
fault in feeling induces also a fault in style. In the old tombs,
the angels used to stand on or by the side of the sarcophagus ;
but their places are here to be occupied by the Virtues, and
therefore, to sustain the diminutive Roman figures at the
necessary height, each has a whole Corinthian pillar to him-
self, a pillar whose shaft is eleven feet high, and some three
or four feet round : and because this was not high enough, it
86 THIRD PERIOD. n. PRIDE OP STATE.
is put on a pedestal four feet and a half high ; and has a
spurred base besides of -its own, a tall capital, then a huge
bracket above the capital, and then another pedestal above the
bracket, and on the top of all the diminutive figure who has
charge of the curtains.
§ Lxxm. Under the canopy, thus arranged, is placed the
sarcophagus with its recumbent figure. The statues of the
Virgin and the saints have disappeared from it. In their
stead, its panels are filled with half-length figures of Faith,
Hope, and Charity ; while Temperance and Fortitude are at
the Doge's feet, Justice and Prudence at his head, figures now
the size of life, yet nevertheless recognizable only by their
attributes : for, except that Hope raises her eyes, there is no
difference in the character or expression of any of their faces,
— they are nothing more than handsome Venetian women, in
rather full and courtly dresses, and tolerably well thrown into
postures for effect from below. Fortitude could not of course
be placed in a graceful one without some sacrifice of her char-
acter, but that was of no consequence in the eyes of the
sculptors of this period, so she leans back languidly, and
nearly overthrows her own column ; while Temperance, and
Justice opposite to her, as neither the left hand of the one
nor the right hand of the other could be seen from below,
have been left with one hand each.
§ LXXIV. Still these figures, coarse and feelingless as they
are, have been worked with care, because the principal effect
of the tomb depends on them. But the effigy of the Doge,
of which nothing but the side is visible, has been utterly neg-
lected ; and the ingenuity of the sculptor is not so great, at
the best, as that he can afford to be slovenly. There is, indeed,
nothing in the history of Foscari which would lead us to
expect anything particularly noble in his face ; but I trust,
nevertheless, it has been misrepresented by this despicable
carver ; for no words are strong enough to express the base-
ness of the portraiture. A huge, gross, bony clown's face,
with the peculiar sodden and sensual cunning in it which is
seen so often in the countenances of the worst Romanist
IT. PRIDE OP STATE. II. ROMAN" RENAISSANCE. 87
priest ; a face part of iron arid part of clay, with the immo-
bility of the one, and the foulness of the other, double chinned,
blunt-mouthed, bony-cheeked, with its brows drawn down
into meagre lines and wrinkles over the eyelids ; the face of a
man incapable either of joy or sorrow, unless such as may be
caused by the indulgence of passion, or the mortification of
pride. Even had he been such a one, a noble workman would
not have written it so legibly on his tomb ; and I believe it to be
the image of the carver's own mind that is there hewn in the
marble, not that of the Doge Foscari. For the same mind is
visible enough throughout, the traces of it mingled with those
of the evil taste of the whole time and people. There is not
anything so small but it is shown in some portion of its treat-
ment ; for instance, in the placing of the shields at the back of
the great curtain. In earlier times, the shield, as we have
seen, was represented as merely suspended against the tomb by
a thong, or if sustained in any other manner, still its form was
simple and undisguised. Men in those days used their shields
in war, and therefore there was no need to add dignity to their
form by external ornament. That which, through day after
day of mortal danger, had borne back from them the waves
of battle, could neither be degraded by simplicity, nor exalted
by decoration. By its rude leathern thong it seemed to be
fastened to their tombs, and the shield of the mighty was not
cast away, though capable of defending its master no more.
§ LXXV. It was otherwise in the fifteenth and sixteenth cen-
turies. The changed system of warfare was rapidly doing
away with the practical service of the shield ; and the chiefs
who directed the battle from a distance, or who passed the
greater part of their lives in the council-chamber, soon came
to regard the shield as nothing more than a field for their
armorial bearings. It then became a principal object of their
Pride of State to increase the conspicuousness of these marks
of family distinction by surrounding them with various and
fantastic ornament, generally scroll or flower work, which of
course deprived the shield of all appearance of being intended
for a soldier's use. Thus the shield of the Foscari is intro-
88 THIRD PERIOD. n. PRIDE of STATS.
duoed ill two ways. On the sarcophagus, the bearings are
three times repeated, enclosed in circular disks, which are
sustained each by a couple of naked infants. Above the
canopy, two shields of the usual form are set in the centre of
circles filled by a radiating ornament of shell flutings, which
give them the effect of ventilators ; and their circumference is
farther adorned by gilt rays, undulating to represent a glory.
§ LXXVI. We now approach that period of the early Renais-
sance which was noticed in the preceding chapter as being at
first a very visible improvement on the corrupted Gothic. The
tombs executed during the period of the Byzantine Renais-
sance exhibit, in the first place, a consummate skill in handling
the chisel, perfect science of drawing and anatomy, high
appreciation of good classical models, and a grace of composi-
tion and delicacy of ornament derived, I believe, principally
from the great Florentine sculptors. But, together with this
science, they exhibit also, for a short time, some return to the
early religious feeling, forming a school of sculpture which
corresponds to that of the school of the Bellini in painting ;
and the only wonder is that there should not have been more
workmen in the fifteenth century doing in marble what Peru-
gino, Francia, and Bellini did on canvas. There are, indeed,
some few, as I have just said, in whom the good and pure
temper shows itself : but the sculptor was necessarily led
sooner than the painter to an exclusive study of classical
:models, utterly adverse to the Christian imagination ; and he
-was also deprived of the great purifying and sacred element
:of color, besides having much more of merely mechanical and
therefore degrading labor to go through in the realization of
his thought. Hence I do not know any example in sculpture
at this period, at least in Yenice, which has not conspicuous
faults (not faults of imperfection, as in early sculpture, but of
purpose and sentiment), staining such beauties as it may pos-
sess ; and the whole school soon falls away, and merges into
vain pomp and meagre metaphor.
§ LXXVII. The most celebrated monument of this period is
. that to the Doge Andrea Yendramin, in the Church of St.
II. I'UIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 89
John and Paul, sculptured about 1480, and before alluded to
in the first chapter of the first volume. It has attracted public
admiration, partly by its costliness, partly by the delicacy and
precision of its chiselling ; being otherwise a very base and un-
worthy example of the school, and showing neither invention
nor feeling. It has the Virtues, as usual, dressed like heathen
goddesses, and totally devoid of expression, though graceful
and well studied merely as female figures. The rest of its
sculpture is all of the same kind ; perfect in workmanship,
and devoid of thought. Its dragons are covered with marvel-
lous scales, but have no terror nor sting in them ; its birds are
perfect in plumage, but have no song in them ; its children
lovely of limb, but have no childishness in them.
§ LXXVIII. Of far other workmanship are the tombs of
Pietro and Giovanni Mocenigo, in St. John and Paul, and of
Pietro Bernardo in the Frari ; in all which the details are as
full of exquisite fancy, as they are perfect in execution ; and
in the two former, and several others of similar feeling, the
old religious symbols return ; the Madonna is again seen
enthroned under the canopy, and the sarcophagus is decorated
with legends of the saints'. But the fatal errors of sentiment
ape, nevertheless, always traceable. In the first place, the
sculptor is always seen to be intent upon the exhibition of his
skill, more than on producing any effect on the spectator's
mind ; elaborate backgrounds of landscape, with tricks of per-
spective, imitations of trees, clouds, and water, and various
other unnecessary adjuncts, merely to show how marble could
be subdued ; together with useless under-cutting, and over-
finish in -subordinate parts, continually exhibiting the same
cold vanity and unexcited precision of mechanism. In the
second place, the figures have all the peculiar tendency to
posture-making, which, exhibiting itself first painfully in Peru-
gino, rapidly destroyed the veracity of composition in all art.
By posture-making I mean, in general, that action of figures
which results from the painter's considering, in the first place,
not how, under the circumstances, thjey would actually have
walked, or stood, or looked, but how they may most gracefully
00 THIRD PERIOD. n. PRIDE OF BTATE.
and harmoniously walk or stand. In the hands of a great man,
posture, like everything else, becomes noble, even when over-
studied, as with Michael Angelo, who was, perhaps, more thar.
any other, the cause of the mischief ; but, with inferior men,
this habit of composing attitudes ends necessarily in utter lifeless-
ness and abortion. Giotto was, perhaps, of all painters, the most
free from the infection of the poison, always conceiving an in-
cident naturally, and drawing it unaffectedly ; and the absence
of posture-making in the works of the Pre-Raphaelites, as op-
posed to the Attitudinarianism of the modern school, has been
both one of their principal virtues, and of the principal causes
of outcry against them.
§ LXXIX. But the most significant change in the treatment
of these tombs, with respect to our immediate object, is in the
f{ rin of the sarcophagus. It was above noted, that, exactly in
proportion to the degree of the pride of life expressed in any
monument, would be also the fear of death ; and therefore, as
these tombg increase in splendor, in size, and beauty of work-
ma nsLip, we perceive a gradual desire to take away from the
definite character of the sarcophagus. In the earliest times,
as we have seen, it was a gloomy mass of stone ; gradually it
became charged with religious sculpture ; but never with the
slightest desire to disguise its form, until towards the middle
of the fifteenth century. It then becomes enriched with
flower-work and hidden by the Virtues ; and, finally, losing its
four-square form, it is modelled on graceful types of ancient
vases, made as little like a coffin as possible, and refined away
in various elegancies, till it becomes, at last, a mere pedestal
or stage for the portrait statue. This statue, in the meantime,
has been gradually coming back to life, through a curious
series of transitions. The Yendramin monument is one of the
last which shows, or pretends to show, the recumbent figure
laid in death. A few years later, this idea became disagree-
able to polite minds ; and, lo ! the figures which before had
been laid at rest upon the tomb pillow, raised themselves on
their elbows, and began, to look round them. The soul of the
sixteenth century dared not contemplate its body in death.
II, PRIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 91
§ LXXX. The reader cannot but remember many instances
of this form of monument, England being peculiarly rich in
examples of them ; although, with her, tomb sculpture, after
the fourteenth century, is altogether imitative, and in no de-
gree indicative of the temper of the people. It was from Italy
that the authority for the change was derived ; and in Italy
only, therefore, that it is truly correspondent to the change in
the national mind. There are many monuments in Venice of
this semi-animate type, most of them carefully sculptured, and
some very admirable as portraits, and for the casting of the
drapery, especially those in the Church of San Salvador ; but
I shall only direct the reader to one, that of Jacopo Pesaro,
Bishop of Paphos, in the Church of the Frari ; notable not
only as a very skilful piece of sculpture, but for the
epitaph, singularly characteristic of the period, and confirma-
tory of all that I have alleged against it :
" James Pesaro, Bishop of Paphos, who conquered the Turks in war,
himself in peace, transported from a noble family among the Venetians
to a nobler among the angels, laid here, expects the noblest crown,
which the just Judge shall give to him in that day. He lived the years
of Plato. He died 24th March, 1547.*
The mingled classicism and carnal pride of this epitaph
surely need no comment. The crown is expected as a right
from the justice of the judge, and the nobility of the Yenetian
family is only a little lower than that of the angels. The
quaint childishness of the "Vixit annos Platonicos" is also
very notable.
§ LXXXI. The statue, however, did not long remain in *his
partially recumbent attitude. Even the expression of peace
became painful to the frivolous and thoughtless Italians, and
they required the portraiture to be rendered in a manner that
should induce no memory of death. The statue rose up, and
presented itself in front of the tomb, like an actor upon a stage,
* "Jacobus Pisaurius Paphi Episcopus qui Turcos bello, se ipsum pace
vincebat, ex nobili inter Venetas, ad nobiliorem inter Angelos familiam
delatus, nobilissimam in ilia die Coronam justo Judice reddeute, hie situs
expectat Vixit annos Platonicos. Obijt MDXLVII. IX.. Kal. Aprilis."
.92 THIRD PERIOD.
II. PKIDE OF STATE.
.surrounded now not merely, or not at all, by the Virtues, but by
allegorical figures of Fame and Victory, by genii and muses,
.by personifi cations of humbled kingdoms and adoring nations,
and by every circumstance of pomp, and symbol of adulation,
that flattery could suggest, or insolence could claim.
§ Lxxxn. As of the intermediate monumental type, so also
of this, the last and most gross, there are unfortunately many
< examples in our own country ; but the most wonderful, by
far, are still at Venice. I shall, however, particularize only
two ; the first, that of the Doge John Pesaro, in the Frari.
It is to be observed that we have passed over a considerable
interval of tune ; we are now in the latter half of the seven-
teenth century ; the progress of corruption has in the mean-
time been incessant, and sculpture has here lost its taste and
learning as well as its feeling. The monument is a huge accu-
mulation of theatrical scenery in marble : four colossal negro
•caryatides, grinning and horrible, with faces of black marble
•and white eyes, sustain the first story of it ; above this, two
monsters, long-necked, half dog and half dragon, sustain an
ornamental sarcophagus, on the top of which the full-length
statue of the Doge in robes of state stands forward with its
arms expanded, like an actor courting applause, under a huge
canopy of metal, like the roof of a bed, painted crimson and
gold ; on each side of him are sitting figures of genii, and
unintelligible personifications gesticulating in Roman armor ;
below, between the negro caryatides, are two ghastly figures
in bronze, half corpse, half skeleton, carrying tablets on which
is written the eulogium : but in large letters graven in gold,
the following words are the first and last that strike the eye ;
the first two phrases, one on each side, on tablets in the lower
story, the last under the portrait statue above :
Vixrr AXNOS LXX. DEVTXIT AITNO MDCLIX.
" Hie REVTXIT ANSTO MDCLXIX."
We have here, at last, the horrible images of death in violent
contrast with the defiant monument, which pretends to bring
ir. PUIDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 93
the resurrection down to earth, " Hie revixit ;" and it seems
impossible for false taste and base feeling to sink lower. Yet
even this monument is surpassed by one in St. John and Paul.
§ Lxxxm. But before we pass to this, the last with which I
shall burden the reader's attention, let us for a moment, and
that we may feel the contrast more forcibly, return to a tomb
of the early times.
In a dark niche in the outer wall of the outer corridor of
St. Mark's — not even in the church, observe, but in the
atrium or porch of it, and on the north side of the church, —
is a solid sarcophagus of white marble, raised only about two
feet from the ground on four stunted square pillars. Its lid
is a mere slab of stone ; on its extremities are sculptured two
crosses ; in front of it are two rows of rude figures, the upper'
most representing Christ with the Apostles : the lower row is
of six figures only, alternately male and female, holding up
their hands in the usual attitude of benediction ; the sixth is
smaller than the rest, and the midmost of the other five has a
glory round its head. I cannot tell the meaning of these
figures, but between them are suspended censers attached to
crosses; a most beautiful symbolic expression of Christ's
mediatorial function. The whole is surrounded by a rude
wreath of vine leaves, proceeding out of the foot of a cross.
On the bar of marble which separates the two rows of
figures are inscribed these words :
" Here lies the Lord Marin Morosini, Duke."
It is the tomb of the Doge Marino Morosini, who reigned
from 1249 to 1252.
§ LXXXIV. From before this rude and solemn sepulchre let
us pass to the southern aisle of the church of St. John and
Paul ; and there, towering from the pavement to the vaulting
of the church, behold a mass of marble, sixty or seventy feet
in height, of mingled yellow and white, the yellow carved into
the form of an enormous curtain, with ropes, fringes, and
tassels, sustained by cherubs ; in front of which, in the now
•usual stage attitudes, advance the statues of the Doge Bertuc-
94 THIRD PERIOD. n. PRIDE OF STATE.
cio Yalier, his son the Doge Silvester Falier, and his son's
wife, Elizabeth. The statues of the Doges, though mean and
Polonius-like, are partly redeemed by the Ducal robes ; but
that of the Dogaressa is a consummation of grossness, vanity,
and ugliness, — the figure of a large and wrinkled woman, with
elaborate curls in stiff projection round her face, covered from
her shoulders to her feet with ruffs, furs, lace, jewels, and em-
broidery. Beneath and around are scattered Virtues, Vic-
tories, Fames, genii, — the entire company of the monumental
stage assembled, as before a drop scene, — executed by various
sculptors, and deserving attentive study as exhibiting every
condition of false taste and feeble conception. The Victory in
the centre is peculiarly interesting ; the lion by which she is
accompanied, springing on a dragon, has been intended to
look terrible, but the incapable sculptor could not conceive
any form of dreadfulness, could not even make the lion look
angry. It looks only lachrymose; and its lifted forepaws,
there being no spring nor motion in its body, give it the
appearance of a dog begging. The inscriptions under the
two principal statues are as follows :
" Bertucius Valier, Duke,
Great in wisdom and eloquence,
Greater in his Hellespontic victory,
Greatest in th,e Prince his son.
Died in the year 1658."
" Elisabeth Quirina,
The wife of Silvester,
Distinguished by Roman virtue,
By Venetian piety,
And by the Ducal crown,
Died 1708."
The writers of this age were generally anxious to make the
world aware that they understood the degrees of comparison,
and a large number of epitaphs are principally constructed
with this object (compare, in the Latin, that of the Bishop of
Paphos, given above) : but the latter of these epitaphs is also
interesting from its mention, in an age now altogether given
m. PRIDE OF SYSTEM. H. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 95
up to the pursuit of worldly honor, of that " Venetian piety"
which once truly distinguished the city from all others ; and
of which some form and shadow, remaining still, served to
point an epitaph, and to feed more cunningly and speciously
the pride which could not be satiated with the sumptuousness
of the sepulchre.
§ LXXXV. Thus far, then, of the second element of the Re-
naissance spirit, the Pride of State ; nor need we go farther to
learn the reason of the fall of Yenice. She was already likened
in her thoughts, and was therefore to be likened in her ruin,
to the Virgin of Babylon. The Pride of State and the Pride
of Knowledge were no new passions : the sentence against
them had gone forth from everlasting. " Thou saidst, I shall
be a lady for ever ; so that thou didst not lay these things to
thine heart. . . Thy wisdom and thy knowledge, it hath
perverted thee • and thou hast said in thine heart, I am, and
none else beside me. Therefore shall evil come upon thee
. . . ; thy merchants from thy youth, they shall wander
every one to his quarter ; none shall save thee." *
§ LXXXVI. III. PRIDE OF SYSTEM. I might have illustrated
these evil principles from a thousand other sources, but I have
not time to pursue the subject farther, and must pass to the
third element above named, the Pride of System. It need
not detain us so long as either of the others, for it is at once
more palpable and less dangerous. The manner in which the
pride of the fifteenth century corrupted the sources of know-
ledge, and diminished the majesty, while it multiplied the trap-
pings, of state, is in general little observed ; but the reader is
probably already well and sufficiently aware of the curious
tendency to formulization and system which, under the name
of philosophy, encumbered the minds of the Renaissance
schoolmen. As it was above stated, grammar became the
first of sciences ; and whatever subject had to be treated, the
first aim of the philosopher was to subject its principles to a
code of laws, in the observation of which the merit of the
* Isaiah xlvii. 7, 10, 11, 15.
96 THIRD PERIOD.
in. PRIDE OF SYSTEM.
speaker, thinker, or worker, in or on that subject, was there-
after to consist ; soi that the whole mind of the world was
occupied by the exclusive study of Restraints. The sound of
the forging of fetters was heard from sea to sea. The doctors
of all the arts and sciences set themselves daily to the inven-
tion of new varieties of cages and manacles ; they themselves
wore, instead of gowns, a chain mail, whose purpose was not
so much to avert the weapon of the adversary as to restrain
the motions of the wearer ; and all the acts, thoughts, and
workings of mankind, — poetry, painting, architecture, and
philosophy, — were reduced by them merely to so many different
forms of fetter-dance.
§ LXXXVII. Now, I am very sure that no reader who has
given any attention to the former portions of this work, or the
tendency of what else I have written, more especially the last
chapter of the " Seven Lamps," will suppose me to underrate
the importance, or dispute the authority, of law. It has been
necessary for me to allege these again and again, nor can they
ever be too often or too energetically alleged, against the vast
masses of men who now disturb or retard the advance of civili-
zation ; heady and high-minded, despisers of discipline, and re-
fusers of correction. But law, so far as it can be reduced to
form and system, and is not written upon the heart, — as it is,
in a Divine loyalty, upon the hearts of the great hierarchies
who serve and wait about the throne of the Eternal Lawgiver,
—this lower and formally expressible law has, I say, two ob-
jects. It is either for the definition and restraint of sin, or
the guidance of simplicity ; it either explains, forbids, and
punishes wickedness, or it guides the movements and actions
both of lifeless things and of the more simple and untaught
among responsible agents. And so long, therefore, as sin and
foolishness are in the world, so long it will be necessary for
men to submit themselves painfully to this lower law, in pro-
portion to their need of being corrected, and to the degree of
childishness or simplicity by which they approach more nearly
to the condition of the unthinking and inanimate things which
are governed by law altogether ; yet yielding, in the manner
III. PKIDK OF SYSTEM. IT. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 9?
of their submission to it, a singular lesson to tlie pride of man,
- being obedient more perfectly in proportion to their great-
ness.* But, so far as men become good and wise, and rise
above the state of children, so far they become emancipated
from this written law, and invested with the perfect freedom
which consists in the fulness and joyfulness of compliance
with a higher and unwritten law ; a law so universal, so subtle,
so glorious, that nothing but the heart can keep it.
§ Lxxxvm. Now pride opposes itself to the observance of
this Divine law in two opposite ways : either by brute resist-
ance, which is the way of the rabble and its leaders, denying
or defying law altogether ; or by f ormul compliance, which is
the way of the Pharisee, exalting himself while he pretends to
obedience, and making void the infinite and spiritual com-
mandment by the finite and lettered commandment. And it
is easy to know which law we are obeying : for any law which
we magnify and keep through pride, is always the law of the
letter; but that which we love and keep through humility, is
the law of the Spirit : And the letter killeth, but the Spirit
giveth life.
§LXXXIX. In the appliance of this universal principle to
what we have at present in hand, it is to be noted, that all
written or writable law respecting the arts is for the childish
and ignorant : that in the beginning of teaching, it is possible
to say that this or that must or must not be done ; and laws of
color and shade may be taught, as laws of harmony are to the
young scholar in music. But the moment a man begins to be
anything deserving the name of an artist, all this teachable law
has become a matter of course with him ; and if, thenceforth,
he boast himself anywise in the law, or pretend that he lives
and works by it, it is a sure sign that he is merely tithing
cummin, and that there is no true arc nor religion in him. For
the true artist has that inspiration in him which is above all
law, or rather, which is continually working out such magnifi-
cent and perfect obedience to supreme law, as can in no wise
* Compare " Seven Lamps," chap. vii. j§3.
98 THIRD PERIOD. m. PRIDE OF SYSTEM.
be rendered by line and rule. There are more laws perceived
and fulfilled in the single stroke of a great workman, than
could be written in a volume. His science is inexpressibiy
subtle, directly taught him by his Maker, not in any wise com-
municable or imitable.* Neither can any written or definitely
observable laws enable us to do any great thing. If is possible,
by measuring and administering quantities of color, to paint a
room wall so that it shall not hurt the eye ; but there are no laws
by observing which we can become Titians. It is possible so to
measure and administer syllables, as to construct harmonious
verse ; but there are no laws by which we can wrrite Iliads.
Out of the poem or the picture, once produced, men may elicit
laws by the volume, and study them with advantage, to the
better understanding of the existing poem or picture ; but no
more write or paint another, than by discovering laws of vege-
tation they can make a tree to grow. And therefore, where-
soever we find the system and formality of rules much dwelt
upon, and spoken of as anything else than a help for children,
there we may be sure that noble art is not even understood, far
less reached. And thus it was with all the common and public
mind in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The greater
men, indeed, broke through the thorn hedges ; and, though
much time was lost by the learned among them in writing
Latin verses and anagrams, and arranging the framework of
quaint sonnets and dexterous syllogisms, still they tore their
way through the sapless thicket by force of intellect or of
piety ; for it was not possible that, either in literature or in
painting, rules could be received by any strong mind, so as
materially to interfere with its originality : and the crabbed
discipline and exact scholapship became an advantage to the
men who could pass through and despise them ; so that in
spite of the rules of the drama we had Shakspeare, and in spite
of the rules of art we had Tintoret, — both of them, to this day,
doing perpetual violence to the vulgar scholarship and dim-
eyed proprieties of the multitude.
§ xc. -But in architecture it was not so ; for that was the
* Se»v ^e farther remarks on Inspiration, in the fourth chapter.
m. PRIDE OP SYSTEM. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 99
art of the multitude, and was affected by all their errors ; and
the great men who entered its field, like Michael Angelo, found
expression for all the best part of their minds in sculpture, and
made the architecture merely its shell. So the simpletons and
sophists had their way with it : and the reader can have no
conception of the inanities and puerilities of the writers, who,
with the help of Yitruvius, re-established its "five orders,"
determined the proportions of each, and gave the various re-
cipes for sublimity and beauty, which have been thenceforward
followed to this day, but which may, I believe, in this age of
perfect machinery, be followed out still farther. If, indeed,
there are only five perfect forms of columns and architraves,
and there be a fixed proportion to each, it is certainly possible,
with a little ingenuity, so to regulate a stonecutting machine,
as that it shall furnish pillars and friezes to the size ordered,
of any of the five orders, on the most perfect Greek models,
in any quantity ; an epitome, also, of Yitruvius, may be made
so simple, as to enable any bricklayer to set them up at their
proper distances, and we may dispense with our* architects
altogether.
§ xci. But if this be not so, and there be any truth in the
faint persuasion which still lurks in men's minds that architec-
ture, is an art, and that it requires some gleam of intellect to
practise it, then let the whole system of the orders and their
proportions be cast out and trampled down as the most vain,
barbarous, and paltry deception that was ever stamped on
human prejudice ; and let us understand this plain truth, com-
mon to all work of man, that, if it be good work, it is not a
copy, nor anything done by rule, but a freshly and divinely
imagined thing. Five orders ! There is not a side chapel in
any Gothic cathedral but it has fifty orders, the worst of them
better than the best of the Greek ones, and all new ; and a
single inventive human soul could create a thousand orders in
an hour.* And this would have been discovered even in the
* That is to say, orders separated by such distinctions as the old Greek
ones : considered with reference to the bearing power of the capital, all
orders may be referred to two, as long ago stated ; just as trees may be re-
ferred to the two great classes, monocotyledonous and dicotyledonous.
100 THIRD PERIOD.
IV. INFIDELITY
worst times, but that, as I said, tlie greatest men of the age
found expression for their invention in the other arts, and the
best of those who devoted themselves to architecture were in
great part occupied in adapting the construction of buildings
to new necessities, such as those developed by the invention
of gunpowder (introducing a totally new and most interesting
science of fortification, which directed the ingenuity of San-
micheli and many others from its proper channel), and found
interest of a meaner kind in the difficulties of reconciling the
obsolete architectural laws they had consented to revive, and
the forms of Roman architecture which they agreed to copy,
with the requirements of the daily life of the sixteenth
century.
§ xcn. These, then, were the three principal directions in
which the Renaissance pride manifested itself, and its impulses
were rendered still more fatal by the entrance of another ele-
ment, inevitably associated with pride. For, as it is written,
" He that trusteth in his own heart is a fool," so also it is
written, "»The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God ;"
and the self -adulation which influenced not less the learning of
the age than its luxury, led gradually to the f orgetfulness of all
things but self, and to an infidelity only the more fatal because
it still retained the form and language of faith.
§ xcin. IV. INFIDELITY. In noticing the more prominent
forms in which this faithlessness manifested itself, it is necessary
to distinguish justly between that which was the consequence
of respect for Paganism, and that which followed from the
corruption of Catholicism. For as the Roman architecture is
not to be made answerable for the primal corruption of the
Gothic, so neither is the' Roman philosophy to be made
answerable for the primal corruption of Christianity. Year
after year, as the history of the life of Christ sank back into
the depths of time, and became obscured by the misty atmos-
phere of the history of the world, — as intermediate actions
and incidents multiplied in number, and countless changes in
men's modes of life, and tones of throught, rendered it more
difficult for them to imagine the facts of distant time, — it be-
TV. INFIDELITY. II. ROM AX REXAISSANCE. 101
came daily, almost hourly, a greater effort for the faithful
heart to apprehend the entire veracity and vitality of the story
of its Redeemer; and more easy for the thoughtless and
remiss to deceive themselves as to the true character of the
belief they had been taught to profess. And this must have
been the case, had the pastors of the Church never failed in
their watchfulness, and the Church itself never erred in its
practice or doctrine. But when every year that removed the
truths of the Gospel into deeper distance, added to them also
some false or foolish tradition; when wilful distortion was
added to natural obscurity, and the dimness of memory was
disguised by the fruitfulness of fiction ; when, moreover, the
enormous temporal power granted to the clergy attracted into
their ranks multitudes of men who, but for such temptation,
would not have pretended to the Christian name, so that
grievous wolves entered in among them, not sparing the flock ;
and when, by the machinations of such men, and the remiss-
ness of others, the form and administrations of Church doctrine
and discipline had become little more than a means of aggran-
dizing the power of the priesthood, it was impossible any
longer for men of thoughtfulness or piety to remain in an
unquestioning serenity of faith. The Church had become so
mingled with the world that its witness could no longer be re-
ceived ; and the professing members of it, who were placed in
circumstances such as to enable them to become aware of its
corruptions, and whom their interest or their simplicity did not
bribe or beguile into silence, gradually separated themselves
into two vast multitudes of adverse energy, one tending to
Reformation, and the other to Infidelity.
§ xcrv. Of these, the last stood, as it were, apart, to watch
the course of the struggle between Romanism and Protestant-
ism ; a struggle which, however necessary, was attended with
infinite calamity to the Church. For, in the first place, the
Protestant movement was, in reality, not reformation but re-
animation. It poured new life into the Church, but it did not
form or define her anew. In some sort it rather broke down
her hedges, so that all they who passed by might pluck off her
102 THIRD PERIOD.
IV. INFIDELITY.
grapes. The reformers speedily found that the enemy was
never far behind the sower of good seed ; that an evil spirit
might enter the ranks of reformation as well as those of resist-
ance ; and that though the deadly blight might be checked
amidst the wheat, there was no hope of ever ridding the wheat
itself from the tares. New temptations were invented by
Satan wherewith to oppose the revived strength of Christi-
anity : as the Romanist, confiding in his human teachers, had
ceased to try whether they were teachers sent from God, so the
Protestant, confiding in the teaching of the Spirit, believed
every spirit, and did not try the spirits whether they were of
God. And a thousand enthusiasms and heresies speedily
obscured the faith and divided the force of the Reformation.
§ xcv. But the main evils rose out of the antagonism of the
two great parties ; primarily, in the mere fact of the existence
of an antagonism. To the eyes of the unbeliever the Church
of Christ, for the first time since its foundation, bore the as-
pect of a house divided against itself. Not that many forms
of schism had not before arisen in it ; but either they had been
obscure and silent, hidden among the shadows of the Alps
and the marshes of the Rhine ; or they had been outbreaks of
visible and unmistakable error, cast off by the Church, root-
less, and speedily withering away, while, with much that was
erring and criminal, she still retained within her the pillar and
ground of the truth. But here was at last a schism in which
truth and authority were at issue. The body that was cast off
withered away no longer. It stretched out its boughs to the
sea and its branches to the river, and it was the ancient trunk
that gave signs of decrepitude. On one side stood the
reanimated faith, in its right-hand the book open, and its left
hand lifted up to heaven, appealing for its proof to the Word
of the Testimony and the power of the Holy Ghost. On the
other stood, or seemed to stand, all beloved custom and be-
lieved tradition ; all that for fifteen hundred years had been
closest to the hearts of men, or most precious for their help.
Long-trusted legend ; long-reverenced power ; long-practised
discipline ; faiths that had ruled the destiny, and sealed the
IV. INFIDELITY. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE.
departure, of souls that could not be told or numbered, for
multitude ; prayers, that from the lips of the fathers to tho!-
of the children had distilled like sweet waterfalls, sounding
through the silence of ages, breaking themselves into heavenly
dew to return upon the pastures of the wilderness ; hopes, that
had set the face as a flint in the torture, and the sword as a
flame in the battle, that had pointed the purposes and minis-
tered the strength of life, brightened the last glances and
shaped the last syllables of death ; charities, that had bound
together the brotherhoods of the mountain and the desert, and
had woven chains of pitying or aspiring communion between
this world and the unfathomable beneath and above; and,
more than these, the spirits of all the innumerable, undoubting,
dead, beckoning to the one way by which they had been con-
tent to follow the things that belonged unto their peace ; —
these all stood on the other side : and the choice must have
been a bitter one, even at the best ; but it was rendered ten-
fold more bitter by the natural, but most sinful animosity of
the two divisions of the Church against each other.
§ xcvi. On one side this animosity was, of course, inevita-
ble. The Romanist party, though still including many Chris-
tian men, necessarily included, also, all the worst of those who
called themselves Christians. In the fact of its refusing cor-
rection, it stood confessed as the Church of the unholy ; and,
while it still counted among its adherents many of the simple
and believing, — men unacquainted with the corruption of the
body to which they belonged, or incapable of accepting any
form of doctrine but that which they had been taught from
their youth, — it gathered together with them whatever was
carnal and sensual in priesthood or in people, all the lovers of
power in the one, and of ease in the other. And the rage of
these men was, of course, unlimited against those who either
disputed their authority, reprehended their manner of life, or
cast suspicion upon the popular methods of lulling the con-
science in the lifetime, or purchasing salvation on the death-
bed.
§ xcvu. Besides this, the reassertion and defence of various
104 THIRD PERIOD.
IV. INFIDELITY.
tenets which before had been little more than floating errors
iif the popular mind, but which, definitely attacked by Prot-
estantism, it became necessary to fasten down with a band
of iron and brass, gave a form at once more rigid, and less
rational, to the whole body of Romanist Divinity. Multitudes
of minds which in other ages might have brought honor and
strength to the Church, preaching the more vital truths which
it still retained, were now occupied in pleading for arraigned
falsehoods, or magnifying disused frivolities ; and it can hardly
be doubted by any candid observer, that the nascent or latent
errors which God pardoned in times of ignorance, became un-
pardonable when they were formally defined and defended ;
that fallacies which were forgiven to the enthusiasm of a mul-
titude, were avenged upon the stubbornness of a Council ; that,
above all, the great invention of the age, which rendered God's
word accessible to every man, left all sins against its light in-
capable of excuse or expiation; and that from the moment
when Home set herself in direct opposition to the Bible, the
judgment was pronounced upon her, which made her the scorn
and the prey of her own children, and cast her down from the
throne where she had magnified herself against heaven, so low,
that at last the unimaginable scene of the Bethlehem humilia-
tion was mocked in the temples of Christianity. Judea had
seen her God laid in the manger of the beasts of burden ; it
was for Christendom to stable the beasts of burden by the altar
of her God.
§ xcvni. Nor, on the other hand, was the opposition of
Protestantism to the Papacy less injurious to itself. That op-
position was, for the most part, intemperate, undistinguishing,
and incautious. It could in-deed hardly be otherwise. Fresh
bleeding from the sword of Rome, and still trembling at her
anathema, the reformed churches were little likely to remember
any of her benefits, or to regard any of her teaching. Forced
by the Romanist contumely into habits of irreverence, by the
Romanist fallacies into habits of disbelief, the self-trusting,
rashly-reasoning spirit gained ground among them daily. Sect
branched out of sect, presumption rose over presumption \ the
IV. INFIDELITY. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 105
miracles of the early Church were denied and its martyrs for-
gotten, though their power and palm were claimed by the
members of every persecuted sect ; pride, malice, wrath, love
of change, masked themselves under the thirst for truth, and
mingled with the just resentment of deception, so that it be-
came impossible even for the best and truest men to know the
plague of their own hearts ; while avarice and impiety openly
transformed reformation into robbery, and reproof into sacrilege.
Ignorance could as easily lead the foes of the Church, as lull
her slumber; men who would once have been the unquestion-
ing recipients, were now the shameless inventors of absurd or
perilous superstitions ; they who were of the temper that
walketh in darkness, gained little by having discovered their
guides to be blind ; and the simplicity of the faith, ill under-
stood and contumaciously alleged, became an excuse for the
rejection of the highest arts and most tried wisdom of man-
kind : while the learned infidel, standing aloof, drew his own
conclusions, both from the rancor of the antagonists, and from
their errors ; believed each in all that he alleged against the
other ; and smiled with superior humanity, as he watched the
winds of the Alps drift the ashes of Jerome, and the dust of
England drink the blood of King Charles.
§ xcix. Now all this evil was, of course, entirely indepen-
dent of the renewal of the study of Pagan writers. But that
renewal found the faith of Christendom already weakened and
dirided ; and therefore it was itself productive of an effect
tenfold greater than could have been apprehended from it at
another time. It acted first, as before noticed, in leading the
attention of all men to words instead of things ; for it was dis-
covered that the language of the middle ages had been corrupt,*
and the primal object of every scholar became now to purify
his style. To this study of words, that of forms being added,
both as of matters of the first importance, half the intellect of
the age was at once absorbed in the base sciences of grammar,
logic, and rhetoric; studies utterly unworthy of the serious
labor of men, and necessarily rendering those employed upon
them incapable of high thoughts or noble emotion. Of the
106 THIRD PERIOD. IV. INFIDELITY
debasing tendency of philology, no proof is needed beyond once
reading a grammarian's notes on a great poet : logic is unneces-
sary for men who can reason ; and about as useful to those who
cannot, as a machine for forcing one foot in due succession be-
fore the other would be to a man who could not walk : while
the study of rhetoric is exclusively one for men who desire to
deceive or be deceived ; he who has the truth at his heart need
never fear the want of persuasion on his tongue, or, if he fear
it, it is because the base rhetoric of dishonesty keeps the truth
from being heard.
§ c. The study of these sciences, therefore, naturally made
men shallow and dishonest in general ; but it had a peculiarly
fatal effect with respect to religion, in the view which men
took of the Bible. Christ's teaching was discovered not to be
rhetorical, St. Paul's preaching not to be logical, and the Greek
of the New Testament not to be grammatical. The stern
truth, the profound pathos, the impatient period, leaping from
point to point and leaving the intervals for the hearer to fill,
the comparatively Hebraized and unelaborate idiom, had little
in them of attraction for the students of phrase and syllogism;
and the chief knowledge of the age became one of the chief
stumbling-blocks to its religion.
§ ci. But it was not the grammarian and logician alone
who was thus retarded or perverted ; in them there had been
small loss. The men who could truly appreciate the higher
excellences of the classics were carried away by a current of
enthusiasm which withdrew them from every other study.
Christianity was still professed as a matter of form, but neither
tthe Bible nor the writings of the Fathers had time left for their
perusal, still less heart left for their acceptance. The human
mind is not capable of more than a certain amount of admira-
tion or reverence, and that which was given to Horace was
withdrawn from David. Religion is, of all subjects, that
which will least endure a second place in the heart or thoughts,
and a languid and occasional study of it was sure to lead to
error or infidelity. On the other hand, what was heartily ad-
mired and unceasingly contemplated was soon brought nigh to
IV. INFIDELITY. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 107
being believed ; and the systems of Pagan mythology began
gradually to assume the places in the human mind from which
the unwatched Christianity was wasting. Men did not indeed
openly sacrifice to Jupiter, or build silver shrines for Diana,
but the ideas of Paganism nevertheless became thoroughly
vital and present with them at all times ; and it did noj; matter
in the least, as far as respected the power of true religion,
whether the Pagan image was believed in or not, so long as it
entirely occupied the thoughts. The scholar of the sixteenth
century, if he saw the lightning shining from the east unto
the west, thought forthwith of Jupiter, not of the coming of
the Son of Man ; if he saw the moon walking in brightness,
he thought of Diana, not of the throne which was to be estab-
lished for ever as a faithful witness in heaven ; and though his
heart was but secretly enticed, yet thus he denied the God that
is above.*
And, indeed, this double creed, of Christianity confessed
and Paganism beloved, was worse than Paganism itself, inas-
much as it refused effective and practical belief altogether. It
would have been better to have worshipped Diana and Jupiter
at once, than to have gone on through the whole of life naming
one God, imagining another, and dreading none. Better, a
thousandfold, to have been " a Pagan suckled in some creed
outworn," than to have stood by the great sea of Eternity and
seen no God walking on its waves, no heavenly world on its
horizon.
§ en. This fatal result of an enthusiasm for classical litera-
ture was hastened and heightened by the misdirection of the
powers of art. The imagination of the age was actively set to
realize these objects of Pagan belief ; and all the most exalted
faculties of man, which, up to that period, had been employed
in the service of Faith, were now transferred to the service of
Fiction. The invention which had formerly been both sancti-
fied and strengthened by laboring under the command of
settled intention, and on the ground of assured belief, had now
* Job xxi: 26-28; Psalm Ixxxix. 37.
108 THIRD PERIOD.
IV. INFIDELITY.
the reins laid upon its neck by passion, and all ground of fact
cut from beneath its feet ; and the imagination which formerly
had helped men to apprehend the truth, now tempted them to
believe a falsehood. The faculties themselves wasted away in
their own treason ; one by one they fell in the potter's field ;
and the Raphael who seemed sent and inspired from heaven
that he might paint Apostles and Prophets, sank at once into
powerlessness at the feet of Apollo and the Muses.
§ cm. But this was not all. The habit of using the greatest
gifts of imagination upon fictitious subjects, of course destroyed
the honor and value of the same imagination used in the cause
of truth. Exactly in the proportion in which Jupiters and
Mercuries were embodied and believed, in that proportion
Virgins and Angels were disembodied and disbelieved. The
images summoned by art began gradually to assume one average
value in the spectator's mind ; and incidents from the Iliad and
from the Exodus to come within the same degrees of credi-
bility. And, farther, while the powers of the imagination
were becoming daily more and more languid, because unsup-
ported by faith, the manual skill and science of the artist were
continually on the increase. When these had reached a certain
point, they began to be the principal things considered in the
picture, and its story or scene to be thought of only as a theme
for their manifestation. Observe the difference. In old times,
men used their powers of painting to show the objects of faith ;
in later times, they used the objects of faith that they might
show their powers of painting. The distinction is enormous,
the difference incalculable as irreconcilable. And thus, the
more skilful the artist, the less his subject was regarded ; and
the hearts of men hardened as their handling softened, until
they reached a point when sacred, profane, or sensual subjects
were employed, with absolute indifference, for the display of
color and execution ; and gradually the mind of Europe con-
gealed into that state of utter apathy, — inconceivable, unless it
had been witnessed, and unpardonable, unless by us, who have
been infected by it, — which permits us to place the Madonna
and the Aphrodite side by side in our galleries, and to pass,
IV. INFIDELITY. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 109
with the same unmoved inquiry into the manner of their hand-
ling, from a Bacchanal to a Nativity.
Now all this evil, observe, would have been merely the
necessary and natural operation of an enthusiasm for the
classics, and of a delight in the mere science of the artist, on
the most virtuous mind. But this operation took place upon
minds enervated by luxury, and which were tempted, at the
very same period, to forgetfulness or denial of all religious
principle by their own basest instincts. The faith which had
been undermined by the genius of Pagans, was overthrown
by the crimes of Christians ; and the ruin which was begun
by scholarship, was completed by sensuality. The characters
of the heathen divinities were as suitable to the manners of
the time as their forms were agreeable to its taste ; and Pagan-
ism again became, in effect, the religion of Europe. That
is to say, the civilized world is at this moment, collectively,
just as Pagan as it was in the second century ; a small body
of believers being now, as they were then, representative of
the Church of Christ in the midst of the faithless : but there
is just this difference, and this very fatal one, between the
second and nineteenth centuries, that the Pagans are nomi-
nally and fashionably Christians, and that there is every con-
ceivable variety and shade of belief between the two ; so that
not only is it most difficult theoretically to mark the point
where hesitating trust and failing practice change into definite
infidelity, but it has become a point of politeness not to inquire
too deeply into our neighbor's religious opinions ; and, so
that no one be offended by violent breach of external forms,
to waive any close examination into the tenets of faith. The
fact is, we distrust each other and ourselves so much, that
we dare not press this matter ; we know that if, on any occa-
sion of general intercourse, we turn to our next neighbor,
and put to him some searching or testing question, we shall,
in nine cases out of ten, discover him to be only a Christian in
his own way, and as far as he thinks proper, and that he
doubts of many things which we ourselves do not believe
strongly enough to hear doubted without danger. What is
110 THIRD PERIOD.
IV. INFIDELITY.
in reality cowardice and faithlessness, we call charity ; and
consider it the part of benevolence sometimes to forgive men's
evil practice for the sake of their accurate faith, and someCnes
to forgive their confessed heresy for the sake of their admira-
ble practice. And under this shelter of charity, humility, and
faintheartedness, the world, unquestioned by others or by
itself, mingles with and overwhelms the small body of Chris-
tians, legislates for them, moralizes for them, reasons for
them; and, though itself of course greatly and beneficently
influenced by the association, and held much in check by its
pretence to Christianity, yet undermines, in nearly the same
degree, the sincerity and practical power of Christianity itself,
until at last, in the very institutions of which the administra-
tion may be considered as the principal test of the genuineness
of national religion, those devoted to education, the Pagan
system is completely triumphant ; and the entire body of the
so-called Christian world has established a system of instruc-
tion for its youth, wherein neither the history of Christ's
Church, nor the language of God's law, is considered a study
of the smallest importance ; wherein, of all subjects of human
inquiry, his own religion is the one in which a youth's igno-
rance is most easily forgiven ;* and in which it is held a light
matter that he should be daily guilty of lying, or debauchery.
or of blasphemy, so only that he write Latin verses accurately,
and with speed.
I believe that in few years more we shall wake from all
these errors in astonishment, as from evil dreams ; having
been preserved, in the midst of their madness, by those hidden
roots of active and earnest Christianity which God's grace
has bound in the English nation with iron and brass. But in
the Yenetian, those roots themselves had withered ; and, from
* I shall not forget the impression made upon me at Oxford, when, going
up for my degree, and mentioning to one of the authorities that I had not
had time enough to read the Epistles properly, I was told, that "the Epis-
tles were separate sciences, and I need not trouble myself about them."
The reader will find some farther notes on this subject in Appendix 7,
" Modern Education."
IV. INFIDELITY. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. Ill
the palace of their ancient religion, their pride cast them forth
hopelessly to the pasture of the brute. From pride to infidel-
ity, from infidelity to the unscrupulous and insatiable pursuit
of pleasure, and from this to irremediable degradation, the
transitions were swift, like the falling of a star. The great
palaces of the haughtiest nobles of Venice were stayed, before
they had risen far above their foundations, by the blast of a
penal poverty ; and the wild grass, on the unfinished frag-
ments of their mighty shafts, waves at the tide-mark where
the power of the godless people first heard the "Hitherto
shalt thou G^me." And the regeneration in which they had
so vainly trusted, — the new birth and clear dawning, as they
thought it, of all art, all knowledge, and all hope, — became
to them as that dawn which Ezekiel saw on the hills of
Israel : " Behold the day ; behold, it is come. The rod hath
blossomed, pride hath budded, violence is risen up into a rod
of wickedness. None of them shall remain, nor of their mul-
titude ; let not the buyer rejoice, nor the seller mourn, for
wrath is upon all the multitude thereof."
CHAPTER HI.
GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE.
§ i. IN the close of the last chapter it was noted that the
phases of transition in the moral temper of the falling Vene-
tians, during their fall, were from pride to infidelity, and from
infidelity to the unscrupulous pursuit of pleasure. During
the last years of the existence of the state, the minds both of
the nobility and the people seem to have been set simply upon
the attainment of the means of self-indulgence. There was
not strength enough in them to be proud, nor forethought
enough to be ambitious. One by one the possessions of the
state were abandoned to its enemies ; one by one the channels
of its trade were forsaken by its own languor, or occupied and
closed against it by its more energetic rivals ; and the time,
the resources, and the thoughts of the nation were exclusively
occupied in the invention of such fantastic and costly pleasures
as might best amuse their apathy, lull their remorse, or dis-
guise their ruin.
§ n. The architecture raised at Yenice during this period is
amongst the worst and basest ever built by the hands of men,
being especially distinguished by a spirit of brutal mockery
and insolent jest, which, exhausting itself in deformed and
monstrous sculpture, can sometimes be hardly otherwise defined
than as the perpetuation in stone of the ribaldries of drunk-
enness. On such a period, and on such work, it is painful to
dwell, and I had not originally intended to do so ; but I found
that the entire spirit of the Renaissance could not be compre-
hended unless it was followed to its consummation ; and that
there were many most interesting questions arising out of the
study of this particular spirit Of jesting, with reference to
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 113
which I have called it the Grotesque Renaissance. For it is
not this period alone which is distinguished by such a spirit.
There is jest — perpetual, careless, and not unfrequently obscene
— in the most noble work of the Gothic periods ; and it
becomes, therefore, of the greatest possible importance to
examine into the nature and essence of the Grotesque itself,
and to ascertain in what respect it is that the jesting of art in
its highest flight, differs from its jesting in its utmost degra-
dation.
§ in. The place where we may best commence our inquiry
is one renowned in the history of Venice, the space of ground
before the Church of Santa Maria Formosa ; a spot which,
after the Eialto and St. Mark's Place, ought to possess a pecu-
liar interest in the mind of the traveller, in consequence of its
connexion with the most touching and true legend of the
Brides of Yenice. That legend is related at length in every
Venetian history, and, finally, has been told by the poet
Rogers, in a way which renders it impossible for any one to
tell it after him. I have only, therefore, to remind the reader
that the capture of the brides took place in the cathedral
church, St. Pietro di Castello ; and that this of Santa Maria
Formosa is connected with the tale, only because it was yearly
visited with prayers by the Venetian maidens, on the anniver-
sary of their ancestors' deliverance. For that deliverance,
their thanks were to be rendered to the Virgin ; and there was
no church then dedicated to the Virgin, in Venice, except
this.*
Neither of the cathedral church, nor of this dedicated to
St. Mary the Beautiful, is one stone left upon another. But,
from that which has been raised on the site of the latter, we
may receive a most important lesson, introductory to our im-
mediate subject, if first we glance back to the traditional his-
tory of the church which has been destroyed.
§ iv. No more honorable epithet than " traditional " can
* Mutinelli, Annali Urbani, lib. i. p. 24; and the Chronicle of 1738,
quoted by Galliciolli: " attrovandosi allora la giesia de Sta. Maria Formosa
sola giesia del nome della gloriosa Vcrgine Maria."
114 THIRD PERIOD.
be attached tp what is recorded concerning it, yet I should
grieve to lose the legend of its first erection. The Bishop of
Uderzo, driven by the Lombards from his Bishopric, as he
was praying, beheld in a vision the Virgin Mother, who
ordered him to found a church in her honor, in the place
where he should see a white cloud rest. And when he went
out, the white cloud went before him ; and on the place
where it rested he built a church, and it was called the Church
of St. Mary the Beautiful, from the loveliness of the form in
which she had appeared in the vision.*
The first church stood only for about two centuries. It was
rebuilt in 864, and enriched with various relics some fifty
years later; relics belonging principally to St. Nicodemus,
and much lamented when they and the church were together
destroyed by fire in 1105.
It was then rebuilt in " magnifica forma," much resembling,
according to Corner, the architecture of the chancel of St.
Mark ; f but the information which I find in various writers,
as to the period at which it was reduced to its present con-
dition, is both sparing and contradictory.
§ v. Thus, by Corner, we are told that this church, resem-
bling St. Mark's, " remained untouched for more than four
centuries," until, in 1689, it was thrown down by an earth-
quake, and restored by the piety of a rich merchant, Turrin
Toroni, "in ornatissima forma;" and that, for the greater
beauty of the renewed church, it had added to it two facades
of marble. With this information that of the Padre dell?
Oratoria agrees, only he gives the date of the earlier rebuild-
ing of the church in 1175, and ascribes it to an architect of the
name of Barbetta. But Quadri, in his usually accurate little
*Or from the brightness of the cloud, according to the Padre who
arranged the " Memorie delle Chiese di Venezia," vol. iii. p. 7. Compare
Corner, p. 42. This first church was built in 639.
f Perhaps both Corner and the Padre founded their diluted information
on the short sentence of Sansovino : " Finaloiente, 1' anno 1075, fu ridotta
a perfezione da Paolo Barbetta, sul modello del corpo di mezzo della chiesa
di S. Marco." Sansovino, however, gives 842, instead of 864, as the date
of the first rebuilding.
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 115
guide, tells us that tliis Barbetta rebuilt the church in
the fourteenth century ; and that of the two f agades, so much
admired by Corner, one is of the sixteenth century, and its
architect unknown ; and the rest of the church is of the seven-
teenth, " in the style of Sansovino."
§ vi. There is no occasion to examine, or endeavor to recon-
cile, these conflicting accounts. All that is necessary for the
reader to know is, that every vestige of the church in which
the ceremony took place was destroyed at least as early as
1689 ; and that the ceremony itself, having been Abolished in
the close of the fourteenth century, is only to be conceived as
taking place in that more ancient church, resembling St.
Mark's, which, even according to Quadri, existed until that
period. I would, therefore, endeavor to fix the reader's
mind, for a moment, on the contrast between the former and
latter aspect of this plot of ground ; the former, when it had
its Byzantine church, and its yearly procession of the Doge
and the Brides ; and the latter, when it has its Renaissance
church " in the style of Sansovino," and its yearly honoring is
done away.
§ vii. And, first, let us consider for a little the significance
and nobleness of that early custom of the Venetians, which
brought about the attack and the rescue of the year 943 : that
there should be but one marriage day for the nobles of the
whole nation,* so that all might rejoice together; and that
the sympathy might be full, not only of the families who that
year beheld the alliance of their children, and prayed for
them in one crowd, weeping before the altar, but of all the
families of the state, who saw, in the day which brought hap-
piness to others, the anniversary of their own. Imagine the
strong bond of brotherhood thus sanctified among them, and
consider also the effect on the minds of the youth of the state ;
the greater deliberation and openness necessarily given to the
contemplation of marriage, to which all the people were
* Or at least for its principal families. Vide Appendix 8, " Early Vene-
tian Marriages.''
116 THIRD PEEIOD.
solemnly to bear testimony ; tlie more lofty and unselfish tone
which it would give to all their thoughts. It was the exact
contrary of stolen marriage. It was marriage to which God
and man were taken for witnesses, and every eye was invoked
for its glance, and every tongue for its prayers.*
§ vni. Later historians have delighted themselves in dwell-
ing on the pageantry of the marriage day itself, but I do not
find that they have authority for the splendor of their descrip-
tions. I cannot find a word in the older Chronicles about the
jewels or dress of the brides, and I believe the ceremony to
have been more quiet and homely than is usually supposed.
The only sentence which gives color to the usual accounts of
it is one of Sansovino's, in which he says that the magnificent
dress of the brides- in his day was founded " on ancient cus-
tom." f However this may have been, the circumstances of
the rite were otherwise very simple. Each maiden brought
her dowry with her in a small "cassetta," or chest; they
went first to the cathedral, and waited for the youths, who
having come, they heard mass together, and the bishop
preached to them and blessed them : and so each bridegroom
took his bride and her dowry and bore her home.
§ ix. It seems that the alarm given by the attack of the
* "Nazionale quasi la ceremonia, perciocche per essa nuovi difensori ad
acquistar andava la patria, sostegni nuovi le leggi, la liberta." — Mutinelli.
f "Vestita, per antico uso, di bianco, e con cbiome sparse giu per le
spalle, conteste con fila d' oro." "Dressed according to ancient usage in
white, and witb ber bair thrown down upon her shoulders, interwoven with
threads of gold." This was when she was first brought out of her chamber
to be seen by the guests invited to the espousals. " And when the form of
the espousal has been gone through, she is led, to the sound of pipes and
trumpets, and other musical instruments, round the room, dancing serenely
all tJie time, and bowing herself before the guests (ballando placidamente, e
facendo inchini ai convitati) ; and so she returns to her chamber : and when
other guests have arrived, she again comes forth, and makes the circuit of
the chamber. And this is repeated for an hour or somewhat more ; and
then, accompanied by many ladies who wait for her, she enters a gondola
without its felze (canopy), and, seated on a somewhat raised seat covered
with carpets, with a great number of gondolas following her, she goes to
visit the monasteries and convents, wheresoever she has any relations.
Ul, GBOTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 117
pirates put an end to the custom of fixing one day for all
marriages : but the. main objects of the institution were still
attained by the perfect publicity given to the marriages of all
the noble families ; the bridegroom standing in the Court of
the Ducal Palace to receive congratulations on his betrothal,
and the whole body of the nobility attending the nuptials, and
rejoicing, " as at some personal good fortune ; since, by the
constitution of the state, they are for ever incorporated to-
gether, as if of one and the same family." * But the festival
of the 2nd of February, after the year 943, seems to have been
observed only in memory of the deliverance of the brides, and
no longer set apart for public nuptials.
§ x. There is much difficulty in. reconciling the various
accounts, or distinguishing the inaccurate ones, of the manner
of keeping this memorable festival. I shall first give Sanso-
vino's, which is the popular one, and then note the points of
importance in the counter-statements. Sansovino says that
the success of the pursuit of the pirates was owing to the ready
help and hard fighting of the men of the district of Sta. Maria
Formosa, for the most part trunkmakers; and that they,
having been presented after the victory to the Doge and the
Senate, were told to ask some favor for their reward. " The
good men then said that they desired the Prince, with his
wife and the Signory, to visit every year the church of their
district, on the day of its feast. And the Prince asking them,
' Suppose it should rain ? ' they answered, ' We will give you
hats to cover you ; and if you are thirsty, we will give you to
drink.' Whence is it that the Vicar, in the name of the people,
presents to the Doge, on his visit, two flasks of malvoisief and
two oranges ; and presents to him two gilded hats, bearing the
arms of the Pope, of the Prince, and of the Vicar. And thus
was instituted the Feast of~the Maries, which was called noble
* Sansovino.
f English, "Malmsey." The reader will find a most amusing account
of the negotiations between the English and Venetians, touching the supply
of London with this wine, in Mr. Brown's translation of the Giustiniani
papers. See Appendix IX.
118 THIRD PERIOD.
and famous because the people from all round came together
to behold it. And it was celebrated in this manner :...."
The account which follows is somewhat prolix ; but its substance
is, briefly, that twelve maidens were elected, two for each divi-
sion of the city ; and that it was decided by lot which contrade,
or quarters of the town, should provide them with dresses.
This was done at enormous expense, one contrada contending
with another, and even the jewels of the treasury of St. Mark
being lent for the occasion to the "Maries," as the twelve
damsels were called. They, being thus dressed with gold, and
silver, and jewels, went in their galley to St. Mark's for the
Doge, who joined them with the Signory, and went first to
San Pietro di Castello to hear mass on St. Mark's day, the
31st of January, and to Santa Maria Formosa on the 2nd of
February, the intermediate day being spent in passing in
procession through the streets of the city; "and sometimes
there arose quarrels about the places they should pass through,
for every one wanted them to pass by his house."
§ xi. Nearly the same account is given by Corner, who,
however, does not say anything about the hats or the malvoisie.
These, however, we find again in the Matricola de' Casseleri,
which, of course, sets the services of the trunkmakers and the
privileges obtained by them in the most brilliant light. The
quaintness of the old Yenetian is hardly to be rendered into
English. " And you must know that the said trunkmakers
were the men who were the cause of such victory, and of
taking the galley, and of cutting all the Triestines to pieces,
because, at that time, they were valiant men and well in order.
The which victory was on the 2nd February, on the day of the
Madonna of candles. And .at the request and entreaties of the
said trunkmakers, it was decreed that the Doge, every year,
as long as Yenice shall endure, should go on the eve of the
said feast to vespers in the said church, with the Signory.
And be it noted, that the vicar is obliged to give to the Doge
two flasks of malvoisie, with two oranges besides. And so
it is observed, and will be observed always." The reader
must observe the continual confusion between St. Mark's day
111. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 119
the 31st of January, and Candlemas the 2nd of February.
The fact appears to be, that the marriage day in the old
republic was St. Mark's day, and the recovery of .the brides
was the same day at evening ; so that, as, we are told by
Sansovino, the commemorative festival began on that day, but
it was continued to the day of the Purification, that especial
thanks might be rendered to the Virgin; and, the visit to
Sta. Maria Formosa being the most important ceremony of the
whole festival, the old chroniclers, and even Sansovino, got
confused, and asserted the victory itself to have taken place
on the day appointed for that pilgrimage.
§ xn. I doubt not that the reader who is acquainted with
the beautiful lines of Rogers is as much grieved as I am at the
interference of the "casket-makers" with the achievement
which the poet ascribes to the bridegrooms alone ; an inter-
ference quite as inopportune as that of old Le Balafre with
the victory of his nephew, in the unsatisfactory conclusion of
" Quentin Durward." I am afraid I cannot get the casket-
makers quite out of the way ; but it may gratify some of my
readers to know that a chronicle of the year 1378, quoted by
Galliciolli, denies the agency of the people of Sta. Maria
Formosa altogether, in these terms : " Some say that the peo-
ple of Sta. M. Formosa were those who recovered the spoil
(" predra ;" I may notice, in passing, that most of the old
chroniclers appear to consider the recovery of the caskets
rather more a subject of congratulation than that of the
brides), and that, for their reward, they asked the Doge and
Signory to visit Sta. M. Formosa ; but this is false. The
going to Sta. M. Formosa was because the thing had succeeded
on that day, and because this was then the only church in
Yenice in honor of the Virgin." But here is again the mis-
take about the day itself ; and besides if we get rid altogether
of the trunkmakers, how are we to account for the ceremony
of the oranges and hats, of which the accounts seem authentic ?
If, however, the reader likes to substitute "carpenters" or
" house-builders " for casket-makers, he may do so with great
reason (vide Galliciolli, lib. ii. § 1758); but I fear that one or
120 THIRD PERIOD.
the other body of tradesmen must be allowed to have had nc
small share in the honor of the victorv.
«/
§ xni. -But whatever doubt attaches to the particular cir-
cumstances of its origin, there is none respecting the splendor
of the festival itself, as it was celebrated for four centuries
afterwards. We find that each Qontrada spent from 800 to
1000 zecchins in the dress of the " Maries" entrusted to it ;
but I cannot find among how many contrade the twelve Maries
were divided ; it is also to be supposed that most of the
accounts given refer to the later periods of the celebration of
the festival. In the beginning of the eleventh century, the
good Doge Pietro Orseolo II. left in his will the third of his
entire fortune "per la Festa della Marie;" and, in the four-
teenth century, so many people came from the rest of Italy to
see it, that special police regulations were made for it, and the
Council of Ten were twice summoned before it took place.*
The expense lavished upon it seems to have increased till the
year 1379, when all the resources of the republic were required
for the terrible war of Chiozza, and all festivity was for
that time put an end to. The issue of the war left the Vene-
tians with neither the power nor the disposition to restore the
festival on its ancient scale, and they seem to have been
ashamed to exhibit it in reduced splendor. It was entirely
abolished.
§ xrv. As if to do away even with its memory, every fea-
ture of the surrounding scene which was associated with that
festival has been in succeeding ages destroyed. With one soli-
tary exception, f there is not a house left in the whole Piazza
of Santa Maria Formosa from whose windows the festa of the
Maries has ever been seen : of the church in which they wor-
shipped, not a stone is left, even the form of the ground and
direction of the neighboring canals are changed ; and there is
now but one landmark to guide the steps of the traveller to
the place where the white cloud rested, and the shrine was
* "XV. diebus et octo diebus ante festum Mariarum omni anno." — Gal-
tidolli. The same precautions were taken before the feast of the Ascension.
f Casa Yittura.
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 121
built to St. Mary the Beautiful. Yet the spot is still worth
his pilgrimage, for he may receive a lesson upon it, though a
painful one. Let him first fill his mind with the fair images
of the ancient festival, and then seek that landmark the tower
of the modern church, built upon the place where the daughters
of Venice knelt yearly with her noblest lords ; and let him
look at the head that is carved on the base of the tower,* still
dedicated to St. Mary the Beautiful.
§ xv. A head, — huge, inhuman, and monstrous, — leering in
bestial degradation, too foul to be either pictured or described,
or to be beheld for more than an instant : yet let it be endured
for that instant ; for in that head is embodied the type of the
evil spirit to which Venice was abandoned in the fourth period
of her decline ; and it is well that we should see and feel the
full horror of it on this spot, and know what pestilence it was
that came and breathed upon her beaaty, until it melted away
like the white cloud from the ancient fields of Santa Maria
Formosa.
§ xvi. This head is one of many hundreds which disgrace
the latest buildings of the city, all more or less agreeing in
their expression of sneering mockery, in most cases enhanced
by thrusting out the tongue. Most of them occur upon the
bridges, which were among the very last works undertaken by
the republic, several, for instance, upon the Bridge of Sighs ;
and they are evidences of a delight in the contemplation of
bestial vice, and the expression of low sarcasm, which is, I be-
lieve, the most hopeless state into which the human mind can
fall. This spirit of idiotic mockery is, as I have said, the most
striking characteristic of the last period of the Renaissance,
which, in consequence of the character thus imparted to its
sculpture, I have called grotesque ; but it must be our imme-
diate task, and it will be a most interesting one, to distinguish
between this base grotesqueness, and that magnificent condition
of fantastic imagination, which was above noticed as one of the
chief elements of the Northern Gothic mind. Nor is this a
* The keystone of the arch on its western side, facing the canal.
122 THIKD PEKIOD.
question of interesting speculation merely : for the distinction
between the true and false grotesque is one which the present
tendencies of the English mind have rendered it practically
important to ascertain ; and that in a degree which, until he
has made some progress in the consideration of the subject, the
reader will hardly anticipate.
§ xvn. But, first, I have to note one peculiarity in the late
architecture of Venice, which will materially assist us in un-
derstanding the true nature of the spirit which is to be the sub-
ject of our inquiry ; and this peculiarity, singularly enough, is
first exemplified in the very fa9ade of Santa Maria Formosa
which is flanked by the grotesque head to which our attention
has just been directed. This facade, whose architect is un-
known, consists of a pediment, sustained on four Corinthian
pilasters, and is, I believe, the earliest in Yenice which appears
entirely destitute of every religious symbol, sculpture, or in-
scription • unless the Cardinal's hat upon the shield in the
centre of the impediment be considered a religious symbol.
The entire fa§ade is nothing else than a monument to the Ad-
miral Yincenzo Cappello. Two tablets, one between each pair
of flanking pillars, record his acts and honors ; and, on the cor-
responding spaces upon the base of the church, are two circular
trophies, composed of halberts, arrows, flags, tridents, helmets,
and lances : sculptures which are just as valueless in a military
as in an ecclesiastical point of view ; for, being all copied from
the forms of Roman arms and armor, they cannot even be re-
ferred to for information respecting the costume of the period.
Over the door, as the chief ornament of the fagade, exactly in
the spot which in the " barbarous" St. Mark's is occupied by
the figure of Christ, is the* statue of Yincenzo Cappello, in
Roman armor. He died in 1542 ; and we have, therefore, the
latter part of the sixteenth century fixed as the period when, in
Yenice, churches were first built to the glory of man, instead
of the glory of God.
i. Throughout the whole of Scripture history, nothing
is more remarkable than the close connection of punishment
with the sin of vain-glory. Every other sin is occasionally per-
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 123
mitted to remain, for lengthened periods, without definite
chastisement ; but the forgetfulness of God, and the claim of
honor by man, as belonging to himself, are visited at once,
whether in Hezekiah, Nebuchadnezzar, or Herod, with the
most tremendous punishment. We have already seen, that the
first reason for the fall of Venice was the manifestation of such
a spirit ; and it is most singular to observe the definiteness with
which it is here marked, — as if so appointed, that it might be
impossible for future ages to miss the lesson. For, in the long
inscriptions* which record the acts of Yincenzo Cappello, it
might, at least, have been anticipated that some expressions
would occur indicative of remaining pretence to religious feel-
ing, or formal acknowledgement of Divine power. But there
are none whatever. The name of God does not once occur ;
that of St. Mark is found only in the statement that Cappello
was a procurator of the church : there is no word touching
either on the faith or hope of the deceased ; and the only sen-
* The inscriptions are as follows :
To the left of the reader.
" VTNCENTIUS CAPELLUS MARITIMARTTM
RERUM PERITISSIMUS ET ANTIQUORUM
LAUDIBU8 PAR, TRIREMIUM ONERARIA
RUM PR^EFECTUS, AB HENRICO VII. BRI
TANNLE REGE INSIGNE DONATTJS CLAS
SIS LEGATTJS V. IMP. DESIG. TER CLAS
8EM DEDTJXIT, COLLAPSAM NAVALEM DI8
CIPLINAM RESTITTTIT, AD ZACXINTHTJM
AURLE C^ESARIS LEGATO PRISCAM
VENETAM VIRTUTEM OSTENDIT."
To the right of the reader.
"IN AMBRACIO StNU BARBARUSSUM OTTHO
MANIOiE CLASSIS DUCEM INCLtTSIT
POSTRIDIE AD LNTERNITIONEM DELETU
RtTS NISI FATA CHRISTIANI8 ADVERSA
VETTJISSENT. IN RYZONICO SINU CASTRO NOVO
EXPUGNATO DIVI MARCI PROCUR
UNIVERSO REIP CON8ENSU CREATUS
IN PATRIA MORITUR TOTITIS CIVITATI8
MKERORE, ANNO ^ETATIS LXXIV. MDCXLII. XIV. KAL SEPT. "
124. THIRD PERIOD.
tence which alludes to supernatural powers at all, alludes to
them under the heathen name of fates, in its explanation of
what the Admiral Cappello would' have accomplished, "nisi
fata Christianis adversa vetuissent."
§ xix. Having taken sufficient note of all the baseness of
mind which these facts indicate in the people, we shall not be
surprised to find immediate signs of dotage in the conception
of their architecture. The churches raised throughout this
period are so grossly debased, that even the Italian critics of
the present day, who are partially awakened to the true state
of art in Italy, though blind, as yet, to its true cause, exhaust
their terms of reproach upon these last efforts of the Renais-
sance builders. The two churches of San Moise and Santa
Maria Zobenigo, which are among the most remarkable in Venice
for their manifestation of insolent atheism, are characterized by
Lazari, the one as " culmine d' ogni follia arehitettonica," the
other as " orrido ammasso di pietra d' Istria," with added expres-
sions of contempt, as just as it is unmitigated.
§ xx. ITow both these churches, which I should like the
reader to visit in succession, if possible, after that of Sta.
Maria Formosa, agree with that church, and with each other,
in being totally destitute of religious symbols, and entirely
dedicated to the honor of two Venetian families. In San
Moise, a bust of Vincenzo Fini is set on a tall narrow pyramid,
above the central door, with this marvellous inscription :
" OMNE FASTIGIYM
VTRTVTE IMPLEX
VTHCENTIVS FINI."
It is very difficult to translate this ; for fastigium, besides
its general sense, has a partieular one in architecture, and refers
to the part of the building occupied by the bust ; but the main
meaning of it is that " Vincenzo Fini fills all height with his
virtue." The inscription goes on into farther praise, but this ex-
ample is enough. Over the two lateral doors are two other
laudatory inscriptions of younger members of the Fini family,
the dates of death of the three heroes being 1660, 1685, and
1726, marking thus the period of consummate degradation.
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 125
§ xxi. Iii like manner, the Church of Santa Maria Zobenigo
is entirely dedicated to the Barbaro family ; the only religious
symbols with which it is invested being statues of angels blow-
ing brazen trumpets, intended to express the spreading of the
fame of the Barbaro family ill heaven. At the top of the
church is Venice crowned, between Justice and Temperance,
Justice holding a pair of grocer's scales, of iron, swinging in
the wind. There is a two-necked stone eagle (the Barbaro
crest), with a copper crown, in the centre of the pediment.
A huge statue of a Barbaro in armor, with a fantastic head-
dress, over the central door ; and four Barbaros in niches, two
on each side of it, strutting statues, in the common stage
postures of the period, — Jo. Maria Barbaro, sapiens ordinum ;
Marinas Barbaro, Senator (reading a speech in a Ciceronian
attitude) ; Franc. Barbaro, legatus in classe (in armor, with
high-heeled boots, and looking resolutely fierce) ; and Carolus
Barbaro, sapiens ordinum : the decorations of the facade being
completed by two trophies, consisting of drums, trumpets, flags
and cannon ; and six plans, sculptured in relief, of the towns
of Zara, Candia, Padua, Rome, Corfu, and Spalatro.
§ xxii. When the traveller has sufficiently considered the
meaning of this facade, he ought to visit the Church of St.
Eustachio, remarkable for the dramatic effect of the group of
sculpture on its facade, and then the Church of the Ospeda-
letto (see Index, under head Ospedaletto) ; noticing, on his
way, the heads on the foundations of the Palazzo Corner della
Regina, and the Palazzo Pesaro, and any other heads carved
on the modern bridges, closing with those on the Bridge of
Sighs.
He will then have obtained a perfect idea of the style and
feeling of the Grotesque Renaissance. I cannot pollute this
volume by any illustration of its worst forms, but the head
turned to the front, on the right-hand in the opposite Plate,
will give the general reader an idea of its most graceful and
refined developments. The figure set beside it, on the left, is
a piece of noble grotesque, from fourteenth century Gothic ;
and it must be our present task to ascertain the nature of the
12G THIRD PERIOD.
difference which exists between the two, by an accurate inquiry
into the true essence of the grotesque spirit itself.
§ xxin. First, then, it seems to me that the grotesque is, in
almost all cases, composed of two elemental-one ludicrous, the
mother fogr-fnl^ that, as one or other of these elements prevails,
the grotesque falls into two branches, sportive ^rotesque and
terrible grotesque ; but that we cannot legitimately consider it
under lliese two aspects, because there are hardly any exam-
ples which do not in some degree combine both elements ;
there are few grotesques so utterly playful as to be overcast
with no shade of fearfulness, and few so fearful as abso-
lutely to exclude all ideas of jest. But although we cannot
separate the grotesque itself into two branches, we may easily
examine separately the two conditions of mind which it seems
to combine ; and consider successively what are the kinds of
jest, and what the kinds of fearfulness, which may be legiti-
mately expressed in the various walks of art, and how their
expressions actually occur in the Gothic and Renaissance
schools.
First, then, what are the conditions of playfulness which
we may fitly express in noble art, or which (for this is the
same thing) are consistent with nobleness in humanity ? In
other words, what is the proper function of play, with respect
not to youth merely, but to all mankind ?
§ xxrv. It is a much more serious question than may be at
first supposed ; for a healthy manner of play is necessary in
order to a healthy manner of work : and because the choice
of our recreation is, in most cases, left to ourselves, while the
nature of our work is generally fixed by necessity or authority,
it may be well doubted whether more distressful consequences
may not have resulted from mistaken choice in play than from
mistaken direction in labor.
§ xxv. Observe, however, that we are only concerned,
here, with that kind of play which causes laughter or implies
recreation, not with that which consists in the excitement of
the energies whether of body or mind. Muscular exertion is,
indeed, in youth, one of the conditions of recreation; "but
III. GEOTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 127
neither the violent bodily labor which children of all asres
*/ O
agree to call play," nor the grave excitement of the mental
faculties in games of skill or chance, are in anywise connected
with the state of feeling we have here to investigate, namely,!
that sportiveness which man possesses in common with many!
inferior creatures, but to which his higher faculties give nobler!
expression in the various manifestations of wit, humor, and]
fancy.
With respect to the manner in which this instinct of play-
fulness is indulged or repressed, mankind are broadly distin-
guishable into four classes : the men who play wisely ; who
play necessarily ; who play inordinately ; and who play not at
all.
§ xxvi. Firsfr*- Those, Tvhn piny winrly — it^is evident tha
the idea of any kind of play can only be associated with the
idea of an imperfect, childish, and fatigable nature. As far
as men can raise that nature, so that it shall no longer be in-
terested by trifles or exhausted by toils, they raise it above
play ; he whose heart is at once fixed upon heaven, and open
to the earth, so as to apprehend the importance of heavenly
doctrines, and the compass of human sorrow, will have little
disposition for jest; and exactly in proportion to the breadth
and depth of his character and intellect, will be, in general,
the incapability of surprise, or exuberant and sudden emotion,
which must render play impossible. It is, however, evidently
not intended that many men should even reach, far less pass
their lives in, that solemn state of though tfulness, which
brings them into the nearest brotherhood with their Divine
Master ; and the highest and healthiest state which is compe-
tent to ordinary humanity appears to be that which, accept-
ing the necessity of recreation, and yielding to the impulses of
natural delight springing out of health and innocence, does,
indeed, condescend often to playfulness, but never without
such deep love of God, of truth, and of humanity, as shall
make even its slightest words reverent, its idlest fancies pro-
fitable, and its keenest satire indulgent. "Wordsworth and
Plato furnish us with, perhaps, the finest and highest exam-
128 THIRD PERIOD.
pies of this playfulness : in the one case, unmixed with satire,
the perfectly simple effusion of that spirit
" Which gives to all the self-same bent,
Whose life is wise, and innocent;"
—in Plato, and, by the by, in a very wise book of our own
times, not unworthy of being named in such companionship,
" Friends in Council," mingled with an exquisitely tender and
loving satire.
§ xxvii. Secondly : The men who playnecessarjly. That
highest species of playfulness^ which weliave just been con-
sidering, is evidently the condition of a mind, not only highly
cultivated, but so habitually trained to intellectual labor that
it can bring a considerable force of accurate thought into its
moments even of recreation. This is not possible, unless so
much repose of mind and heart are enjoyed, even at the
periods of greatest exertion, that the rest required by the system
is diffused over the whole life. To the majority of mankind,
such a state is evidently unattainable. They must, perforce,
pass a large part of their lives in employments both irksome
and toilsome, demanding an expenditure of energy which ex-
, hausts the system, and yet consuming that energy upon sub-
\ jects incapable of interesting the nobler faculties. When such
I employments are intermitted, those noble instincts, fancy,
] imagination, and curiosity, are all hungry for the food which
the labor of the day has denied to them, while yet the weari-
ness of the body, in a great degree, forbids their application
to any serious subject. They therefore exert themselves with-
out any determined purpose, and under no vigorous restraint,
but gather, as best they may, such various nourishment, and
put themselves to such fantastic exercise, as may soonest in-
demnify them for their past imprisonment, and prepare them
to endure their recurrence. This sketching of the mental
limbs as their fetters fall away, — this leaping and dancing of
the heart and intellect, when they are restored to the fresh air
of heaven, yet half paralyzed by their captivity, and unable to
turn themselves to any earnest purpose, — I call necessary play.
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 129
It is impossible to exaggerate its importance, whether in polity,
or in art.
§ xxvni. Thirdly : The men who play inordinately. The
most perfect state of society which, consistently with due un-
derstanding of man's nature, it may be permitted us to con-
ceive, would be one in which the whole human race were
divided, more or less distinctly, into workers and thinkers ; that
is to say, into the two classes, who only play wisely, .or play
necessarily. But the number and the toil of the working class
are enormously increased, probably more than doubled, by the
vices of the men who neither play wisely nor necessarily, but
are enabled by circumstances, and permitted by their want of
principle, to make amusement the object of their existence.
There is not any moment of the lives of such men which is
not injurious to others ; both because they leave the work un-
done which was appointed for them, and because they neces-
sarily think wrongly, whenever it becomes compulsory upon
them to think at all. The greater portion of the misery of
• this world arises from the false opinions of men whose idleness
has physically incapacitated them from forming true ones.
Every duty which we omit obscures some truth which we
should have known ; and the guilt of a life spent in the pur-
suit of pleasure is twofold, partly consisting in the perversion
of action, and partly in the dissemination of falsehood.
§ xxix. There is, however, a less criminal, though hardly
less dangerous condition of mind ; which, though not failing
in its more urgent duties, fails in the finer conscientiousness
which regulates the degree, and directs the choice, of amuse-
ment, at those times when amusement is allowable. The most
frequent error in this respect is the want of reverence in ap-
proaching subjects of importance or sacredness, and of caution
in the expression of thoughts which may encourage like irrev-
erence in others : and these faults are apt to gain upon the
mind until it becomes habitually more sensible to what is lu-
dicrous and accidental, than to what is grave and essential, in
any subject that is brought before it ; or even, at last, desires
to perceive or to know nothing but what may end in jest.
130 THIRD PERIOD.
Very generally minds of this character are active and able ;
and many of them are so far conscientious, that they believe
their jesting forwards their work. But it is difficult to calcu-
late the harm they do, by destroying the reverence which is
our best guide into all truth ; for weakness and evil are easily
visible, but greatness and goodness are often latent ; and we do-
infinite mischief by exposing weakness to eyes which cannot
comprehend greatness. This error, however, is more connected
with abuses of the satirical than of the playful instinct ; and I
shall have more to say of it presently.
xxx. Lastly : The men who do not play at all : those
who areso^duTTbT so morose as to be incapable of inventing or
enjoying jest, and in whom care, guilt, or pride represses all
healthy exhilaration of the fancy ; or else men utterly op-
pressed with labor, and driven too hard by the necessities of
tjia wprld to be capable of any species of happy relaxation.
§ xxxi. We have now to consider the way in which the pres-
ence or .absence of joyfulness, in these several classes, is ex-
pressed in art.
Wise play ./The first and noblest class hardly ever,
art, except seriously ;» they feel its nobleness
too profoundly, and value the time necessary for its produc-
tion too Ivighlyj to employ it in the rendf^'ngnf trivial
^houghts-y/The playful fancy of a moment may innocently be
by the passing word ; but he can hardly have
learned the preciousness of life, who passes days m the elabo-
iration of a jest "Sjid, as to~wliaF" regards the delineation
muman character, the nature of all noble art is to epitomize andN
embrace so much at once, that its subject can never be alto-
[gether ludicrous; it must 'possess all the solemmties of the
not the brightness of the partial, truth. For all truth
that makes us smile is~partial. The novelist amuses us by his
relation of a particular incident; but the painter cannot set
any one of his characters before us without giving some glimpse
of its whole career. That of which the historian informs us
In successive pages, it is the task of the painter to inform us of
a^ once, writing upon the countenance not merely the expression
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE.
131
of the moment, but the history of the life : and the history of
a life can never be a jest.
Whatever part, therefore, of the sportive energy of these
men of the highest class would be expressed in verbal wit or
humor finds small utterance through their art, and will assur-
edly be confined, if it occur there at all, to scattered and
trivial incidentslT^uT: so far as their minds can~~Tveix'ato
y
of strange,, yet not lanfthable.
.forms, which,, either in costume, in landscape, or in any other
be combined with those necessary for their
^ wg find them delighting in such inven-
species of grotesqueness thence arising in all their
" which is indeed one of its most valuable characteristics,
'but which is so intimately connected with the sublime or tei>
^leform of the grotesque/that it will be better to notice it
under tha
xxxii. (^/ Necessary play. I have dwelt much in a
f corner portion of this work, on the justice and desirableness
of employing the minds of inferior workmen, and of the lower
orders in general, in the production of objects of art of one
kind or another. So far as men of this class are compelled to
hard manual labor for their daily bread, so far forth their
artistical efforts must be rough and ignorant, and their artisti-
cal perceptions comparatively dull. Now it is not possible,
with blunt perceptions and rude hands, to produce works
which shall be pleasing by their beauty ; but it is perfectly
possible to produce such as shall be interesting by their char-
acter or amusing by their satire. For one hard-working man
who possesses the finer instincts which decide on perfection of
lines and harmonies of color, twenty possess dry humor or]
quainj^ fancy ; not because these faculties were originally given
to the human race, or to any section of it, in greater degree
than the sense of beauty, but because these are exercised in
our daily intercourse with each other, and developed by the
interest which we take in the affairs of life, while the others
are not. And because, therefore, a certain degree of success will
probably attend the effort to express this humor or fancy, while
132 THIRD PERIOD.
comparative failure will assuredly result from ail ignorant
struggle to reach the forms of solemn beauty, the working-
man, who turns his attention partially to art, will probably,
and wisely, choose to do that which he can do best, and indulge
the pride of an effective satire rather than subject himself to
assured mortification in the pursuit of beauty ; and this the
more, because we have seen that his application to art is to be
playful and recreative, and it is not in recreation that the con-
ditions of perfection can be fulfilled,
i / § xxxni. Now all the forms of art which result from the
/comparatively recreative exertion of minds more or less blunted
/ or encumbered by other cares and toils, the art which we may
\ call generally art of the wayside, as opposed to that which is
\ the business of men's lives, is, in the best sense of the word,
'Grotesque. And it is noble or inferior,Jirst, according to the
tone of the minds which have produced it, and in proportion
to their knowledge, wit, love of truth, and kindness ; secondly,
according to the degree of strength they have been able ip
give forth ; but yet, however much we may find in it needing
to be forgiven, always delightful so long as it is the work of
good and ordinarily intelligent men. Ajui_itsjdeliglitfuln£as
ought mainly to consist in those very im^e^ections--Mlucli
anarK_it for work done in times of rest. It is not its own
Imerit so much as the enjoyment of him who produced it,
/Kvhich is to be the source of the spectator's pleasure ; it is to
//the strength of his sympathy, not to the accuracy of his criti-
/Icism, that it makes appeal ; and no man can indeed be a lover
of what is best in'the higher walks of art, who has not feeling
and charity enough to rejoice with the rude sportiveness of
hearts that have escaped out of prison, and to be thankful for
the flowers which men have laid their burdens down to sow by
the wayside.
§ xxxiv. And consider what a vast amount of human work
this right understanding of its meaning will make fruitful and
admirable to us, which otherwise we could only have passed
by with contempt. There is very little architecture in the
world which is, in the full sense of the words, good and noble.
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 133
A few pieces of Italian Gothic and Romanesque, a few scat- r
tered fragments of Gothic cathedrals, and perhaps two or'~
three of Greek temples, are all that we possess approaching
to an ideal of perfection. All the rest — Egyptian, Norman,
Arabian, and most Gothic, and, which is very noticeable, for
the most part all the strongest and mightiest — -depend for their |
power on some developement of the grotesque spirit; but I
much more the inferior domestic architecture of the middle »
ages, and what similar conditions remain to this day in coun-
tries from which the life of art has not yet been banished by
its laws. The fantastic gables, built up in scroll-work and
steps, of the Flemish street ; the pinnacled roofs set with
their small humorist double windows, as if with so many ears
and eyes, of Northern France ; the blackened timbers, crossed
and carved into every conceivable waywardness of imagina-
tion, of Normandy and old England ; the rude hewing of the
s pine timbers of the Swiss cottage ; the projecting turrets and
bracketed oriels of the German street ; these, and a thousand
other forms, not in themselves reaching any high degree of
excellence, are yet admirable, and most precious, as the fruits 1
of a rejoicing energy in uncultivated rpinrfc. It is easier to I
take away the energy, than to add the cultivation ; and the
only effect of the better knowledge which civilized nations
now possess, has been, as we have seen in a former chapter,
to forbid their being happy, without enabling them to be
great.
§ xxxv. It is very necessary, however, with respect to this
provincial or rustic architecture, that we should carefully dis-
tinguish its truly grotesque from its picturesque elements. In
the "Seven Lamps" I defined the picturesque to be "parasiti-
cal sublimity," or sublimity belonging to the external or acci-
dental characters of a thing, not to the thing itself. For
instance, when a highland cottage roof is covered with frag-
ments of shale instead of slates, it becomes picturesque, be-
cause the irregularity and rude fractures of the rocks, and
their grey and gloomy color, give to it something of the
savageness, and much of the general aspect, of the slope of a
134 THIRD PERIOD.
mountain side. But as a mere cottage roof, it cannot be sub-
lime, and whatever sublimity it derives from the wilclness or
sternness which the mountains have given it in its covering,
is, so far forth, parasitical. The mountain itself would have
been grand, which is much more than picturesque ; but the
cottage cannot be grand as such, and the parasitical grandeur
which it may possess by accidental qualities, is the character
for which men have long agreed to use the inaccurate word
" Picturesque."
§ xxxvi. On the other hand, beauty cannot be parasitical.
There is nothing so small or so contemptible, but it may be
beautiful in its own right. The cottage may be beautiful, and
the smallest moss that grows on its roof, and the minutest
fibre of that moss which the microscope can raise into visible
form, and all of them in their own right, not less than the
mountains and the sky ; so that we use no peculiar term to
express their beauty, however diminutive, but only when the
sublime element enters, without sufficient worthiness in the
nature of the thing to which it is attached.
§• xxxvu. Now this picturesque element, which is always
given, if by nothing else, merely by ruggedness, adds usually
very largely to the pleasurableness of grotesque work, especi-
ally to that of its inferior kinds ; but it is not for this reason
to be confounded with the grotesqueness itself. The knots
and rents of the timbers, the irregular lying of the shingles on
the roofs, the vigorous light and shadow, the fractures and
weather-stains of the old stones, which were so deeply loved
and so admirably rendered by our lost Prout, are the pictur-
sque elements of the architecture : the grotesque oqejLjire
llQSfiJwhich are not produced by the working ofjiature and
of time, but exclusively by the fancy of man ; and, as also for
;he most part by his indolent and uncultivated fancy, they are
ilways, in some degree, wanting in grandeur, unless the pic-
uresque element be united with them.
§ xxxvin. 3. Inordinate play. The reader will have some
difficulty, I fear, in keeping clearly in his mind the various
divisions of our subject; but, when he has once read the
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 135
chapter through, he will see their places and coherence. We
have next to consider the expression throughout of the minds
of men who indulge themselves in unnecessary play. It is
evident that a large number of these men will be more refined
and more highly_educated than those who only play neces
sarily; the^power of pleasure-seeking implies, in general, for-
tunate circumstances of life. It is evident also that their play
will not be so hearty, so simple, or so joyful ; and this
deficiency of brightness will affect it in proportion to its
unnecessary and unlawful continuance, until at last it becomes
a restless and dissatisfied indulgence in excitement, or a pain-
ful delving after exhausted springs of pleasure.
The art through which this temper is expressed will, in all 1
probability, be refined and sensual, — therefore, also, assuredly \
feeble ; and because, in the failure of the joyful energy of the
mind, there will fail, also, its perceptions and its sympathies,
it will be entirely deficient in expression of character, and
acuteness of thought, but will be peculiarly restless, manifest-
ing its desire for excitement in idle changes of subject and
purpose. Incapable of true imaffinatioiL.it^vjll seek to sup-
ply its place by exaggerations, incoherencies, and monstrosi-
jles ; and the form of the grotesque to which it gives rise ,
will be an incongruous chain of hackneyed graces, idly thrown
together, — prettinesses or sublimities, not of its own inven-
tion, associated in forms which will be absurd without being
fantastic, and monstrous without being terrible. And because,
in the continual pursuit of pleasure, men lose both cheerful-
ness and charity, there will be small hilarity, but much malice,
in this grotesque ; yet a weak malice, incapable of express-
ing its own bitterness, not having grasp enough of truth to
become forcible, and exhausting itself in impotent or disgust- i
ing caricature.
§ jxxix. Of course, there are infinite ranks and kinds of
this grotesque, according to the natural power of the minds
which originate it, and to the degree in which they have lost
themselves. Its highest condition is that which first developed
itself among the enervated Romans, and which was brought
136 THIRD PEEIOD.
to the highest perfection of which it was capable, by Raphael,
in the arabesques of the Vatican. It may be generally de-
scribed as an elaborate and luscious form of nonsense. Its
lower conditions are found in the common upholstery and
decorations which, over the whole of civilized Europe, have
sprung from this poisonous root ; an artistical pottage, com-
posed of nymphs, cupids, and satyrs, with shreddings of heads
and paws of meek wild beasts, and nondescript vegetables.
And the lowest of all are those which have not even graceful
models to recommend them, but arise out of the corruption
of the higher schools, mingled with clownish or bestial satire,
as is the case in the latter Renaissance of Venice, which we
were above examining. It is almost impossible to believe the
depth to which the human mind can be debased in following
this species of grotesque. In a recent Italian garden, the
favorite ornaments frequently consist of stucco images, repre-
senting, in dwarfish caricature, the most disgusting types of
manhood and womanhood which can be found amidst the
dissipation of the modern drawingroom; yet without either
/veracity or humor, and dependent, for whatever interest they
/possess, upon simple grossness of expression and absurdity of
I/ costume. Grossness, of one kind or another, is, indeed, an
unfailing characteristic of the style ; either latent, as in the
refined sensuality of the more graceful arabesques, or, in the
worst examples, manifested in every species of obscene con-
ception and abominable detail. In the head, described in the
opening of this chapter, at Santa Maria Formosa, the teeth are
represented as decayed.
XL. 4. The minds of the fourth class of men who do not
play "ait all, are little likely to find expression in any trivial
form of art, except in bitterness of mockery ; and this charac-
ter at once stamps the work in which it appears, as bejonging
tfi_tli<? yiog° of tor-vThlp rather than of playful, grotesque. » We
have, therefore, now to examine the state of mind which gave
rise to this second and^jnore interesting branch of imaginative
work.
§ XLI. Two__great_and principal passions are evidently ap-
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 137
pointed by tbc Deity to rale the life of man; namely, the love
of God, and the fear of sin, and of its companion— Death.
How many motives we have for Love, how much there is in
the universe to kindle our admiration and to claim our grati
tude, there are, happily, multitudes among us who both feel
and teach. But it has not, I think, been sufficiently considered
how evident, throughout the system of creation, is the purpose
of God that we should often be affected by Fear ; not the sud-
den, selfish, and contemptible fear of immediate danger, but
the fear which arises out of the contemplation of great powers
I
in destructive operation, and generally from the perception of
the presence . of death. Nothing appears to me more remark-
able than the array of scenic magnificence by which the im-
agination is appalled, in myriads of instances, when the actual
danger is comparatively small ; so that the utmost possible
impression of awe shall be produced upon the minds of all,
though direct suffering is inflicted upon few. Consider, for
instance, the moral effect of a single thunder-storm. Perhaps
two or three persons may be struck dead within the space of a
hundred square miles ; and their deaths, unaccompanied by
the scenery of the storm, would produce little more than a V
momentary sadness in the busy hearts of living men. But
the preparation for the Judgment by all that mighty gather-
ing of clouds ; by the questioning of the forest leaves, in their
terrified stillness, which way the winds shall go forth ; by the
murmuring to each other, deep in the distance, of the destroy-
ing angels before they draw forth their swords of fire ; by the
march of the funeral darkness in the midst of the noon-^ay, .~
and the rattling of the dome of heaven beneath^he chariot-
wheels ol death ; —on Iiow many minds do not these produce]] i
an impression almost as great as the actual witnessing of the If j
fatal issue ! and how strangely are the expressions of the* '
threatening elements fitted to the apprehension of the human
soul ! The lurid color, the long, irregular, convulsive sound
the ghastly shapes of flaming and heaving cloud, are all as
true and faithful in their appeal to our instinct of danger, as
the moaning or wailing of the human voice itself is to our
138 THIRD PERIOD.
instinct of pity. It is not a reasonable calculating terror which
they awake in us ; it is no matter that we count distance by
seconds, and measure probability by averages. That shadow of
the thunder-cloud will still do its work upon our hearts, and
wfe shall watch its passing away as if we stood upon ' the
threshing-floor of Araunah.
§ XLII. And this is equally the case with respect to all the
other destructive phenomena of the universe. From the
mightiest of them to the gentlest, from the earthquake to the
I summer shower, it will be found that they are attended by
(certain aspects of threatening, which strike terror into the
hearts of multitudes more numerous a thousandfold than those
who actually suffer from the ministries of judgment ; and
that, besides the fearfulness of these immediately dangerous
phenomena, there is an occult and subtle horror belonging to
many aspects of the creation around us, calculated oftenjto fill
ns with serious thought, even in our times of quietness and
peace. I understand not the most dangerous, because most
attractive form of modern infidelity, which, pretending to
exalt the beneficence of the Deity, degrades it- into a reckless
infinitude of mercy, and blind obliteration of the work of sin ;
and which does this chiefly by dwelling on the manifold ap-
pearances of God's kindness on the face of creation. Such
kindness is indeed everywhere and always visible; but not
alone../ Wrath and threatening are invariably mingled with
thp. Jrtyp. ; and in the utmost solitudes of nature, the existence
of Hell seems to me as legibly declacq^by a thou^aadHapuu&ial
nces, as that of HeaveiuXlt is well for us to dwell with
f J*"*fcZZ r-^" '
thankfumgsbi uirtTie unfolding of the flower, and the falling of
the dew, and the sleep of the green fields in the sunshine ; but
ithe blasted trunk, the barren rock, the moaning of the bleak
iwiuds, the roar of the black, perilous, merciless whirlpools of
i the mountain streams, the solemn solitudes of moors and seas,]
the continual fading of all beauty into darkness, and of
strength into dust, have these no language for us ? We maj
to escape their teaching by reasonings touching the gooi
out of all evil; but it is vain sophisti
f
»r
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 139
The good succeeds to the evil as day succeeds the night, but//
so also the evil to the good. Gerizim and Ebal, birth anq
death, light and darkness, heaven and hell, divide the existence
of man, and his Futurity.*
§ XLIII. And because the thoughts of the choice we have
to make between these two, ought to rule us continually, not
so much in our own actions (for these should, for the most
part, be governed by settled habit and principle) as in our
manner of regarding the lives of other men, and our own
responsibilities with respect to them ; therefore, it seems to
me that the healthiest state into which the human inind can
be brought is that whicli is capable of the greatest love, and
the greatest awe : and this we are taught even in our times
of rest ; for when our minds are rightly in tone, the merely
pleasurable excitement which they seek with most avidity is
that which rises out of the contemplation of beauty or of ter-
— •~~^^m ^Q^teES5S^^fe^E''^^5E53MBB^v^MIMriHBHMMai^|||^Eg"~
\or Doth? and, according to the heigh
tone ~6i 6"uT feeling, desire to see them in noble or inferior
forms. Thus there is a Divine beauty, and a terribleness or
with it in rank, which are the
is an inferior 15!
and an inferior terribleness coequal with it in rank, which are-'
_subjects of grotesque_a/£ And the state of mind in which
,the terrible form of the grotesque is developed, is that which
in some irregular manner, dwells upon certain conditions of
terribleness, into the complete depth of which it does not
enter for the time,
§ XLIV. Now the things which arp thfl pn>p^r pnVfogtsi of
human fear are twbf oldj tHosewhich have the power oil/
Death, and-thosfe-JF^h liflvp, th° "QH-i™> *f fo'm Of which
there are many ranks, greater or less in power and vice, from
the evil angels themselves down to the serpent which is their
* The Love of God is, however, always shown by the predominance, or
greater sum, of good, in the end; but never by the annihilation of evil.
The modern doubts of eternal punishment are^not so much the consequence
of benevolence as of feeble powers of reasoning. Every one admits that
God brings finite good out of finite evil. Why not, therefore, infinite good
out of infinite evil?
140 THIRD PERIOD.
type, and which though of a low and contemptible class,
appears to unite the deathful and sinful natures in the most
clearly visible and intelligible form ; for there is nothing else
which we know, of so small strength and occupying so unim-
portant a place in the economy of creation, which yet is so
mortal and so malignant. It is, then, on these two classes of
objects that the mind fixes for its excitement, in that mood
which gives rise to the terrible grotesque ; and its subject will'
be found always to unite some expression of vocfejlind danger/
but regarded in a peculiar temper ; sometimes^A) of predeter-
mined or involuntary apathy, sometimes (B) of mockery, some-
times (c) of diseased and ungoverned imaginativeness.
§ XLV. For observe, the difficulty which, as I above stated,
xists in distinguishing the playful from the terrible grotesque
irises out of this cause ; that the mind, under certain phases
of excitement, plays with terror, and summons images which,
f it were in another temper, would be awful, but of which,
iither in weariness or in irony, it refrains for the tune to
acknowledge the true terribleness. And the mode in which
this refusal takes place distinguishes the noble from the igno-
ble grotesque. For the master of the noblQ i^fttPRT""* knows
thfi_d£pth of all at wjuck-i*? fttuub lu niutk, JtadjEOulcLJeel
it at another time, or feels it in a. pprtajn undercurrent of
thought even while he jests with it ; but the workman of the
ignoble grotesque can feel and understand nothing, and mocks
at all things with the laughter of the idiot and the cretin.
To work out this distinction completely is the chief diffi-
culty in our present inquiry ; and, in order to do so, let us
consider the above-named three conditions of mind in succes-
'on, with relation to objects -of terror.
XL vi. /A). Involuntary or preaeterWined "apathy! We
saw above thalPEhe grotesque wa& piudiiml, uhibflj hi subor-
dinate or ornamental art, by rude, and in some degree unedu-
icated men, and in their times of rest. At such times, and in
such subordinate work, it is impossible that they should repre-
sent any solemn or terrible subject with a full and serious
entrance into its feeling. It is not in the languor of a leisure
I
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE.
141
hour that a man will set his whole soul to conceive the means
of representing some important truth, nor to the projecting
angle of a timber bracket that he would trust its representa-
tion, if conceived. And yet, in this languor, and in this
trivial work, he must find some expression of the serious part
of his soul, of what there is within him capable of awe, as well
as of love. The more noble the man is, the more impossible
it will be for him to confine his thoughts to mere loveliness.,
and that of a low order. Were his powers and his time un-
limited, so that, like Fra Angelico, he could paint the Seraphim,
in that order of beauty he could find contentment, bringing
down heaven to earth. But by the conditions of his being, by
his hard-worked life, by his feeble powers of execution, by the
meanness of his employment and the languor of his heart, he
is bound down to earth. It is the world's work that he is
doing, and world's work is not te be done without fear. And
whatever there is of deep and eternal consciousness within
him, thrilling his mind with the sense of the presence of sin
and death around him, must be expressed in that slight work,
and feeble way, come of it what will. He cannot forget it,
among all that he sees of beautiful in nature ; he may not
bury himself among the leaves of the violet on the rocks, and
of the lily in the glen, and twine out of them garlands of per-
petual gladness. He sees more in the earth than these, — mis-
ery and wrath, and discordance, and danger, and all the work
of the dngon- and his angels ; this he sees with too deep feel-
ing evev to forget. • And though when he returns to his idle
work, — it may be to gild the letters upon the page, or to carve
the timbers of the chamber, or the stones of the pinnacle, — he
cannot give his strength of thought any more to the woe or to
the danger, there is a shadow of them still present with him :
and as the bright colors mingle beneath his touch, and the fair
leaves and flowers grow at his bidding, strange horrors and
phantasms rise by their side ; grisly beasts and venomous ser-
pents, and spectral fiends and nameless inconsistencies of ghastly
life, rising out of things most beautiful, and fading back into
them again, as the harm and the horror of life do out of its
142 - THIRD PERIOD.
happiness. He has seen these things ; he wars with them
daily ; he cannot but give them their part in his work, though
in a state of comparative apathy to them at the time. He is
but carving and gilding, and must not turn aside to weep ; but
he knows that hell is burning on, for all that, and the smoke
it withers liis_oak-leaves.
§ XLVII. Now, the feelings which give rise to the false or
ignoble grotesque, are exactly the reverse of these. In the
true grotesque, a man of naturally strong feeling is accidentally
or resolutely apathetic ; in the false grotesque, a man naturally
apathetic is forcing himself into temporary excitement. The
horror which is expressed by the one, comes upon him whether
he will or not ; that which is expressed by the other, is sought
out by him, and elaborated by his art. And therefore, also,
because the fear of the one is true, and of true things, however
fantastic its expression may be, there will be reality in it, and
force. It is not a manufactured terribleness, whose author,
when he had finished it, knew not if it would terrify any one
else or not : but it is a terribleness taken from the life ; a
spectre which the workman indeed saw, and which, as it ap-
palled him, will appal us also. But the other workman never
felt any Divine fear ; he never shuddered when he heard the
cry from the burning towers of the earth,
" Venga Medusa; si lo farem di smalto."
He is stone already, and needs no gentle hand laid upon his
eyes to save him.
| XLvm. I do not mean what I say in this place to apply to
he creations of the imagination. It is not as the creating but
the seeing man, that we are here contemplating the master
of the true grotesque. It is because the dreadfulness of the
• I universe around him weighs upon his heart, that his work is
[ wild ; and therefore through the whole of it we shall find the
evidence of deep insight into nature. His beasts and birds,
1 1 however monstrous, will have profound relations with the true.
He may be an ignorant man, and little acquainted 'with the
laws of nature ; ne is certainly a busy man, and has not much
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 143
time to watch nature ; but he never saw a serpent cross his
path, nor a bird flit across the sky, nor a lizard bask upon a
stone, without learning so much of the sublimity and inner
nature of each as will not suffer him thenceforth to conceive
them coldly. He may not be able to carve plumes or scales
well ; but his creatures will bite and fly, for all that. The ig-
noble workman is the very reverse of this. He never felt,
never looked at mature ; and if he endeavor to imitate the
work of the other, all his touches will be made at random, and
all his extravagances will be ineffective ; he may knit brows,
and twist lips, and lengthen beaks, and sharpen teeth, but it
will be all in vain. He may make his creatures disgusting, but
never fearful.
§ XLIX. There is, however, often another cause of difference
than this. The true grotesque being the^xpression of the re-
pose or play of a serious mind, there us_a_
posed to it, which is the yesult of the full exertion of a frivo-
lous one. There islnuch grotesque which is wrought out with
exquisite care and pains, and as much labor given to it as if it
were of the noblest subject ; so that the workman is evidently
no longer apathetic, and has no excuse for unconnectedness of
thought, or sudden unreasonable fear. If he awakens horror
now, it ought to be in some truly sublime form. His strength
is in his work ; and he must not give way to sudden humor,
and fits of erratic fancy. If he does so, it must be because his
mind is naturally frivolous, or is for the time degraded into the
Deliberate pursuit of frivolity. And herein lies the real dis-
tinction between the base grotesque of Raphael and the Re-
naissance, above alluded to, and the true Gothic grotesque.
Those grotesques or arabesques of the Vatican, and other such
work, which have become the patterns of ornamentation in
modern times, are the fruit of great minds degraded to base
objects. The care, skill, and science, applied to the distribu-
tion of the leaves, and the drawing of the figures, are intense,
admirable, and accurate ; therefore, they ought to have pro-
duced a grand and serious work, not a tissue of nonsense. If
we can draw the human head perfectly, and are masters of its
144: THIRD PERIOD.
expression and its beauty, we have no business to cut it off, and
hang it up by the hair at the end of a garland. If we can draw
the human body in the perfection of its grace and movement,
we have no business to take away its limbs, and terminate it
with a bunch of leaves. Or rather our doing so will imply
that there is something wrong with us ; that, if we can consent
to use our best powers for such base and vain trifling, there
must be something wanting in the powers themselves ; and
that, however skilful we may be, or however learned, we are
wanting both in the earnestness which can apprehend a noble
truth, and in the thoughtfulness which can feel a noble fear.
No Divine terror will ever be found in the work of the man
who wastes a colossal strength in elaborating toys ; for the first
lesson which that terror is sent to teach us, is the value of the
human soul, and the shortness of mortal time.
§ L. And are we never, then, it will be asked, to possess a
refined or perfect ornamentation? Must all decoration be
the work of the ignorant and the rude ? Not so ; but exactly
in proportion as the ignorance and rudeness diminish, must the
ornamentation become rational, and the grotesqueness disap-
pear. The noblest lessons may be taught in ornamentation,
the most solemn truths compressed into it. The Book of
Genesis, in all the fulness of its incidents, in all the depth of
its meaning, is bound within the leaf-borders of the gates of
Ghibertl. But Raphael's arabesque is mere elaborate idleness.
It has neither meaning nor heart in it ; it is an unnatural and
monstrous abortion. ^
§ LI. Now, this passing of the grotesque into higher art, as
the mind of the workman becomes informed with better know-
ledge, and capable of more, earnest exertion, takes place in two
ways. Either, as his power increases, he devotes himself more
and more to the beauty, which he now feels himself able to ex-
press, and so the grotesqueness expands, and softens into the
beautiful, as in the above-named instance of the gates of Ghi-
berti ; or else, if the mind of the workman be naturally inclined'
to gloomy contemplation, the imperfection or apathy of his
work rises into nobler terribleness, until we reach the point of
'
III. GKOTESQUE REKAISSAHCE. 145
the grotesque of Albert Durer, where, every now and then,
tlie playfulness or apathy of the painter passes into perfect
sublime. Take the Adam and Eve, for instance. When he
gave Adam a bough to hold, with a parrot on it, and a tablet
hung to it, with " Albertus Durer Noricus faciebat, 1504,"
thereupon, his mind was not in Paradise. He was half in play,
half apathetic with respect to his subject, thinking how to do
his work well, as a wise master-graver, and how to receive his
just reward of fame. But he rose into the true sublime in the
head of Adam, and in the profound truthfulness of every crea-
ture that fills the forest. So again in that magnificent coat of
arms, with the lady and the satyr, as he cast the fluttering
drapery hither and thither around the helmet, and wove the
delicate crown upon the woman's forehead, he was in a kind of
play; but there is none in the dreadful skull upon the shield.
And in the " Knight and Death," and in the dragons of the
illustrations to the Apocalypse, there is neither play nor
apathy ; but their grotesque is of the ghastly kind which best
illustrates the nature of death and sin. And this leads us to
the consideration of the second state of mind out of which the
noble grotesque is developed ; that is to say, the temper of
mockery
SatireA In the former part of this
inds of art which were produced
in the recreation of the lower orders, I only spoke of forms of
ornament, not of the expression of satire or humor. But it
seems probable, that nothing is so refreshing to the vulgar
mind as some exercise of this faculty, more especially on the
failings of their superiors ; and that, wherever the lower orders
are allowed to express themselves freely, we shall find humor,
more or less caustic, becoming a principal feature in their work.
The classical and Renaissance manufacturers of modern times
having silenced the independent language of the operative, his
humor and satire pass away in the word-wit which has of late
become the especial study of the group of authors headed by
Charlf • Dickens ; all this power was formerly thrown into no-
ble a d became permanently expressed in the sculptures of
146 THIRD PERIOD.
the cathedral. It was never thought that there was anything
discordant or improper in such a position : for the builders
evidently felt very deeply a truth of which, in modern times,
we are less cognizant ; that folly and sin are, to a certain ex-
tent, synonymous, and that it would be well for mankind in
general, if all could be made to feel that wickedness is as con
temptible as it is hateful. So that the vices were permitted to
be represented under the most ridiculous forms, and all the
coarsest wit of the workman to be exhausted in completing
the degradation of the creatures supposed to be subjected to
them.
§ Lin. Nor were even the supernatural powers of evil exempt
from this species of satire. For with whatever hatred or horror
the evil angels were regarded, it was one of the conditions of
Christianity that they should also be looked upon as vanquished ;
and this not merely in their great combat with the King of
Saints, but in daily and hourly combats with the weakest of
His servants. In proportion to the narrowness of the powers
of abstract conception in the workman, the nobleness of the
idea of spiritual nature diminished, and the traditions of the .
encounters of men with fiends in daily temptations were im-
agined with less terrific circumstances, until the agencies which
in such warfare were almost always represented as vanquished
with disgrace, became, at last, as much the objects of contempt
as of terror.
The superstitions which represented the devil as assuming
various contemptible forms of disguises in order to accomplish
his purposes aided this gradual degradation of conception, and
directed the study of the workman to the most strange and
ugly conditions of animal form, until at last, even in the most
serious subjects, the fiends are oftener ludicrous than terrible.
Nor, indeed, is this altogether avoidable, for it is not possible
to express intense wickedness without some condition of deg-
radation. Malice, subtlety, and pride, in their extreme, can-
not be written upon noble forms ; and I am aware of no effort
to represent the Satanic mind' in the angelic form, which has
svcceeded in painting.,. Milton succeeds only because he sepa-
I
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 147
ratelv describes the movements of the mind, and therefore
leaves himself at liberty to make the form heroic ; but that
form is never distinct enough to be painted. Dante, who will
not leave even external forms obscure, degrades them before
he can feel them to be demoniacal ; so also John Bunyan : both
of them, I think, having firmer faith than Milton's in their
own creations, and deeper insight into the nature of sin. Mil-
ton makes his fiends too noble, and misses the foulness, incon-
stancy, and fury of wickedness. His Satan possesses some vir-
tues, not the less virtues for being applied to evil purpose.
Courage, resolution, patience, deliberation in council, this lat-
ter being eminently a wise and holy character, as opposed to
the " Insania" of excessive sin : and all this, if not a sJiallow
artistical, conception./TXJn iheTotner
have always felt that tKere was apeculiar 'grandeu^
the indescribable, ungovernable fury of Dante s nendsTeverj
Cening its own powers, and disappointing its own purposes ;
the deaf, blind, speechless, unspeakable rage, fierce as the light-
ning, but erring from its mark or turning senselessly against
itself, and still further debased by foulness of form and action.
Something is indeed to be allowed for the rude feelings of the
time, but I believe all such men as Dante are sent into the
world at the time when they can do their work best ; and that,
it being appointed for him to give to mankind the most vigor-
ous realization possible both of Hell and Heaven, he was born
"both in the country and at the time which furnished the mosj
stem /opposition of Horror
^vritten in the clearest terms^AC37therefore, though there
nss?igt?s'in the "Inferno which it would be impossible for
any poet now to write, I look upon it as all the more perfect
for them. For there can be no question but that one charac-
teristic of excessive vice is indecency, a general baseness in
its thoughts and acts concerning the body,* and that the full
portraiture of it cannot be given without marking, and that in
the strongest lines, this tendency to corporeal degradation ;
* Let the reader examine, with special reference to this subject, the gen-
oral character of the language of lago.
-
THIRD PF.EIOI\
which, in the time of Panto, could be done frankly, but cannot
' ow. And, therefore, I think the twenty-first and twenty-
second books of the " Inferno" the most perfect portraitures
f fiendish nature which we possess ; and at the same time, in
their mingling of the extreme of horror (for it seems to me
that the silent swiftness of the first demon, " con T ali aperte e
sovra i pie leggiero," cannot be surpassed in dreadfulness'i with
ludicrous actions and images, they present the iyi«vA pe_rfect in-
*fs with which I am acquainted of the terrible grotesque.
But the whole of the " Inferno" is full of this grotesque, as;
well as the " Faerie Queen ;" and these two poems, together
with the works of Albert Durer, will enable the reader to study-
it in its noblest forms, without reference to Gothic cathedrals.
§ LIT. Xow, just as there are base and noble conditions of
the apathetic grotesque, so also are there of this satirical gro-
tesque. The condition which might be mistaken for it is that
above described as resulting from the malice of men given to
pleasure, and in which the grossness and foulness are in the
workman as much as in his subject, so that he chooses to repre-
sent vice and disease rather than virtue and beauty, having his
chief delight in contemplating them ; though he still mocks at
them with such dull wit as may be in him, because, as Young
v has said most trulj,
1 v
,^V " "Hs not in folly not to scorn a fool"
§ LV. Xow it is easy to distinguish this grotesque from its
noble counterpart, by merely observing whether any forms of
beauty or dignity are mingled with it or not ; for, of course,
I the noble grotesque is only employed by its master for good
I purposes, and to contrast w^kh beauty : but the base workman
'cannot conceive anything but what is base; and there will be
no loveliness in any part of his work, or, at the best, a loveli-
-leasured by line and rule, and dependent on legal shapes
of feature. But, without resorting to this test, and merely by
examining the ugly grotesque itself, it will be founjl-*k«J- if it
belongs to the-baae^school, there will be, &str-ri-HorTor>ln it ;
secondlv. no Nature i^ it ; and. thirdlv,
•
7
IIL GROTESQUE KZXAIBSAJTCZ.
§ L VL I flafT^rs^lm TTnnnr For the base soul has no
fear of sin, and no hatred of it : and, however it may strive to
make its work terrible, there will be no genuineness in the
; the utmost it can do wfll be to make its work din^ustin^
there wfll be no Nature in it. It appears to be
proposed by Providence in the appuinl incut
of the forms of the brute creation, that the various vices to
which marnkmH are liable- should be severally expressed in
them so distinctly and dearly as that men could not but under-
stand the lesson ; while yet these conditions of vice might, in
the inferior Mihna^ be observed without the dii gust and hatred
which the same vices would excite, if seen i
be associated with features of interest which would
attract and reward contemplation. Thus, ferocity,
sloth, discontent, gluttony, »i»iV'jiMf""1, and cruelty are
each in its extreme, in various animals; and are so vigorously
expressed, that when men desire to indicate the same vices in
connexion with human forms, they can do it no better than
by borrowing here and there the features of animals And
when the workman is thus led to the contemplation of the
animal kingdom, finding therein the expressions of vice
he needs, associated with power, and nobleness,
from disease, if his mind be of right tone he
ested in this new study : and all noble grotesque is, fhcicf
full of the most admirable rendering of animal cnaracter! But
tEfe Igwtik. •pitman m fUjuMe, uf UP liiUfiferof tins kind;
alld. Ufliii; uju diifl iu appreciate, and too idle to execute, the
subtle and wonderful fines on which the expression of the
lower animal depends, he contents himself with vulgar exag-
geration, and leaves his work as false as it is
of blunt malice and obscene ignorance. — ^
TL Lastly, there will be /no Mereyjiu it. Wherever
the satire of the noble grotcsque^&s«£-«jfon human nature, it
does =o
forms there
r Utter sa^
.. -. ..
rpand even in its more
loses sight altogether of the
-
150 THIRD PERIOD.
"/what it attacks, nor refuses to acknowledge its redeeming or
/ pardonable features. But the ignoble grotesque has no pity :
I it rejoices in iniquity, and exists only to slander.
§ LVIII. I have not space to follow out the various forms of
transition which exist between the two extremes of great
and base in the satirical grotesque. The reader must always
remember, that, although there is an infinite distance between
the best and worst, in this kind the interval is filled by endless
conditions more or less inclining to the evil or the good ; im-
purity and malice stealing gradually into the nobler forms,
and invention and wit elevating the lower, according to the
jcountless minglings of the elements of the human soul.
§ LO . (c). Ungovernableness of the imagination. The
reader is always to keep in mind that if the objects of horror,
in which the terrible grotesque finds its materials, were con-
templated in their time light, and with the • entire energy of
the soul, they would cease to be grotesque, and become alto-
gether sublime ; and that therefore it is some shortening of
t.^p.^pnwp* nr thp wi1]1 of contemplation, .and some conse-
quentdistortion of the terrible hnage in which the grotesque-
neslTconsists. Now this distortion takes place, it was aDove
"^asserted, in three ways: either through (apathy, satire, or
^jingovernableness of imagination. It is tins last cause of tEe
''grotesque winch we have finally to consider ; namely, the
„ _j ? error and wildness of the mental impressions, caused by fear
' operating upon strong powers of imagination, or by the failure
of the human faculties in the endeavor to grasp the highesj
truths.
§ LX. The grotesque which comes to all men in a disturbed
idream^js the mosfTintelligijbJe exampleTbf this kind, but_also
/the most ignoble;TK5 imagination, in this instance, being
entirely deprived of all aid from reason, and incapable of self-
government. I believe, however, that the noblest forms of
imagmatiy.e power are also in some sort ungovernable, anS
I have in them something of the character of dreams ; so that
' the vision, of whatever kind, comes uncalled, and will not
submit itself to the seer, but conquers him, and forces him to
III. GROTESQUE REXAlSSAKCE. 151
speak as a prophet, having no power over his words or
thoughts.* Only, if the whole man be trained perfectly, and
his mind calm, consistent and powerful, the vision which
comes to him is seen as in a perfect mirror, serenely, and in
* This opposition of art to inspiration is long and gracefully dwelt upon
by Plato, in his "Phaedrus," using, in the course of his argument, almost
the words of St. Paul: KaXkiov naprvpovdiv oi naXcaol Caviar <S&-
q>po(5vvr)S rf/v ix Qsov rrf? nap" ayOpooTtooy ytyvonevrjS: '" It is the\ \
testimony of the ancients, that the madness which is of God is a nobler thina
than the wisdom which is of men;" and again, " He who sets himself to any
work with which the Muses have to do," (i. e to any of the line arts,) " with-
out madness, thinking that by art alone he can do his work sufficiently, will
be found vain and incapable, and the work of temperance and rationalism
will be thrust aside and obscured by that of inspiration." The passages to
the same effect, relating especially to poetry, are innumerable in nearly all
ancient writers ; but in this of Plato, the entire compass of the fine arts is
intended to be embraced.
No one acquainted with other parts of my writings will suppose me to
be an advocate of idle trust in the imagination. But it is in these days just
as necessary to allege the supremacy of genius as the necessity of labor ; for
there never was, perhaps, a period in which the peculiar gift of the painter
was so little discerned, in which so many and so vain efforts have been
made to replace it by study and toil. This has been peculiarly the case
with the German school , and there are few exhibitions of human error
more pitiable than the manner in which the inferior members of it, men
originally and for ever destitute of the painting faculty, force themselves
into an unnatural, encumbered, learned fructification of tasteless fruit, and
pass laborious lives in setting obscurely and weakly upon canvas the
philosophy, if such it be, which ten minutes' work of a strong man would
have put into healthy practice, or plain words. I know not anything more
melancholy than the sight of the huge German cartoon, with its objective
side, and subjective side ; and mythological division, and symbolical divi-
sion, and human and Divine division ; its allegorical sense, and literal
sense ; and ideal point of view, and intellectual, point of view ; its heroism
of well-made armor and knitted brows : its heroinism of graceful attitude
and braided hair ; its inwoven web of sentiment, and piety, and phi-
losophy, and anatomy, and history, all profound : and twenty Innocent
dashes of the hand of one God-made painter, poor old Bassan or Bonifazio,
were worth it all, and worth it ten thousand times over.
Not that the sentiment or the philosophy is base in itself. They will
make a good man, but they will not make a good painter, — no, nor the mU-
lionth part of a painter. They would have been good in the work ana
words of daily life ; but they are good for nothing in the cartoon, if they
are there alone. And the worst result of the system is the intense conceit
152 THIRD PERIOD.
consistence with the rational powers ; but if the mind be
imperfect and ill trained, the vision is seen as in a broken
mirror, with strange distortions and discrepancies, all the pas-
sions of the heart breathing upon it in cross ripples, till hardly
a trace of it remains unbroken. So that, strictly speaking,
the imagination is never governed ; it is always the ruling
and Divine power: and the rest of the man is to it only as an
instrument which it sounds, or a tablet on which it writes ;
clearly and sublimely if the wax be smooth and the strings
e, grotesquely and wildly^l thgy arft stain ^
And thus the u lliad,jrthe " "Inferno," tlie,^Pi
' the kt Faerie Queen," ara-alljjf them t.mft flffarng^v
only the sleep of the men to whom they came was the deep,
living sleep which God sends, with a sacredness in it, as of
eath. the revealer of secjyitg — —
§ LXI. Now, observe in this matter, carefully, the difference
between a dim mirror and a distorted one ; and do not blame
me for pressing the analogy too far, for it will enable me to
explain my meaning every way more clearly. Most men's
minds are dim mirrors, in which all truth is seen, as St. Paul
tells us, darkly : this is the fault most common and most fatal ;
dulness of the heart and mistiness of sight, increasing to utter
hardness and blindness ; Satan breathing upon the glass, so
that if we do not sweep the mist laboriously away, it will take
no image. But, even so far as we are able to do this, we have
still the distortion to fear, yet not to the same extent, for we
into which it cultivates a weak mind. Nothing is so hopeless, so intoler-
able, as the pride of a foolish man who has passed through a process of
thinking, so as actually to have found something out- He believes there is
nothing else to be found out in the universe. Whereas the truly great man,
on whom the Revelations rain till they bear him to the earth with their
weight, lays his head in the dust, and speaks thence — often in broken
syllables. Vanity is indeed a very equally divided inheritance among
mankind ; but I think that among the first persons, no emphasis is alto-
gether so strong as that on the German Ich. I was once introduced to a
German philosopher-painter before Tintoret's "Massacre of the Innocents."
He looked at it superciliously, and said it "wanted to be restored." He
had been himself several years employed in painting a "Faust" in a red
jerkin and blue fire ; which made Tintoret appear somewhat dull to him.
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 153
can in some sort allow for the distortion of an image, if only
we can see it clearly. And the fallen human soul, at its best,
must be as a diminishing glass, and that a broken one, to the
mighty truths of the universe round it; and the wider the
scope of its glance, and the vaster the truths into which it
obtains an insight, the more fantastic their distortion is likely
to be, as the winds and vapors trouble the field of the telescope
y ow? so far as the truth is seen by the imaginatiojni*
in its~wholeness and quietness, the vision is sublime ; but so
^ «»^ JU""^"**^^ •• • ^^•^^^^^•i • . -i • ». .I .^^•~-1 * -. — „, >it
far as it is narrowed and broken by the inconsistencies
human capacity, it becomes grotesque : and it would seem to
be rare that any very exalted truth should be impressed on the
imagination without some_ grotesqueness in its aspect, propor-
tioned to the degree of diminution qfbrcadtli in the gras]
which is given of it^ IN early all tne dreams f ecorde
Bil >le, — Jilcr^^—d'T/seph's, Pharaoh's, Nebuchadnezzar's, — ar
grotesques; and nearly the wyhole of the accessary scenery ii
the books of Ezekiel and the Apocalypse. Thus, Jacob
dream revealed to him the ministry of angels ; but because
this ministry could not be seen or understood by him in its
fulness, it was narrowed to him into a ladder between heaven
and earth, which was a grotesque. Joseph's two dreams were
evidently intended to be signs of the steadfastness of the
Divine purpose towards him, by possessing the clearness of
special prophecy ; yet were couched in such imagery, as not
to inform him prematurely of his destiny, and only to be
understood after their fulfilment. The sun, and moon, and
stars were at the period, and are indeed throughout the Bible,
the symbols of high authority. It was not revealed to Joseph
that he should be lord over all Egypt; but the representation
of his family by symbols, of tjie most magnificent dominion,
and yet as subject to him, must" have been afterwards felt by
him as a distinctly prophetic indication of his own supreme
power. It was not revealed to him that the occasion of his
* I have before stated ("Modern Painters" vol. ii.) that the first func-
tion of the imagination is the apprehension of ultimate truth.
154
THIRD PEKIOD.
r /
I
lP
brethren's special humiliation before him should be their com-
ing to buy corn ; but when the event took place, must he not
have felt that there was prophetic purpose in the form of the
sheaves of wheat which first imaged forth their subjection to
him ? And these two images of the sun doing obeisance, and
the sheaves bowing down, — narrowed and imperfect intima-
tions of great truth which yet could not be otherwise con-
veyed, — are both grotesque. The kine of Pharaoh eating
each other, the gold and clay of Nebuchadnezzar's image, the
four beasts full of eyes, and other imagery^of Ezekiel and the
Apocalypse, are grotesques of the same kind, on which I need
not further insist.
§ LXIII. Such forms, however, ought perhaps to have been
arranged under a separate head, as Symbolical Grotesque ; but
the element of awe enters into them so strongly, as to justify,
for all our present purposes, their being classed with the other
varieties of terrible grotesque. For even if the symbolic
vision itself be not terrible, the sense of what may be veiled
behind it becomes all the more awful in proportion to the
pnsignificance or strangeness of the sign itself ; and, I believe,
/this thrill of mingled doubt, fear, and curiosity lies at the very
'root of the delight which mankind take in symbolism. It was
tnot an accidental necessity for the conveyance of truth by
{pictures instead of words, which led to its universal adoption "
I wherever art was on the advance; but the Divine fear which
'necessarily follows on the understanding that a thing is other
and greater than it seems ; and which, it appears probable,
has been rendered peculiarly attractive to the human heart,
because God would have us understand that this is true not
of invented symbols merely, but of all things amidst which
we live ; that there is a deeper meaning within them than eye
hath seen, or ear hath heard ; and th,at the whole visible crea-
tion is a mere perishable symbol of things eternal and true.
It cannot but have been sometimes a subject of wonder with
thoughtful men, how fondly, age after age, the Church has
cherished the belief that the four living creatures which sur-
rounded the Apocalyptic throne were symbols of the four
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE.
155
Evangelists, and rejoiced to use those forms in its picture-
teaching; that a calf, a lion, an eagle, and a beast with a
man's face, should in all ages have been preferred by the
Christian world, as expressive of Evangelistic power and in-
spiration, to the majesty of human forms; and that quaint
grotesques, awkward and often ludicrous caricatures even of
the animals represented, should have been regarded by all men,
not only with contentment, but with awe, and have superseded
all endeavors to represent the characters and persons of the
Evangelistic writers themselves (except in a few instances,
confined principally to works undertaken without a definite
religious purpose); — this, I say, might appear more than
strange to us, were it not that we ourselves share the awe,
and are still satisfied with the symbol, and that justly. For,
whether we are conscious of it or not, there is in our hearts,
as we gaze upon the brutal forms that have so holy a signifi-
cation, an acknowledgment that it was not Matthew, nor
Mark, nor Luke, nor John, in whom the Gospel of Christ
was unsealed : but that the invisible things of Him from the
beginning of the creation are clearly seen, being understood
by the things that are made ; that the whole world, and all
that is therein, be it low or high, great or small, is a continual
Gospel ; and that as the heathen, in their alienation from God,
changed His glory into an image made like unto corruptible
man, and to birds, and four-footed beasts, the Christian, in his
approach to God, is to undo this work, and to change the cor-
ruptible things into the image of His glory ; believing that
there is nothing so base in creation, but that our faith may
give it wings which shall raise us into companionship with
heaven ; and that, on the other hand, there is nothing so great
or so goodly in creation, but that it is a mean symbol of the
Gospel of Christ, and of the things He has prepared for them
that love Him.
§ LXIV. And it is easy to understand, if we follow out this
thought, how, when once the symbolic language was familiar-
ized to the mind, and its solemnity felt in all its fulness, there
was no likelihood of offence being taken at ariy repulsive or
156
THIRD PERIOD.
in execution or conception.
incident
here was no]
uunmiuiipace, but, if regarded
"form so mean, no incident ^
in this light, it might become sublime ; the more vigorous the
fancy and the more faithful the enthusiasm, the greater would
be the likelihood of their delighting in the contemplation of
symbols whose mystery was enhanced by apparent insignifi-
:ice, or .in which the sanctity and majesty of meaning were
ntrasted with the utmost uncouthness of external form : nor
uncouthness merely, but even with every appearance of
malignity or baseness; the beholder not being revolted even
by this, but comprehending that, as the seeming evil in the
framework of creation did not invalidate its Divine author-
ship, so neither did the evil or imperfection in the symbol)
.validate its Divine inessage./! ' And thus, sometimes the
became wanTon in his appeal to the piety of
his interpreter, and recklessly poured out the impurity and
the savageness of his own heart, for the mere pleasure of seeing
them overlaid with the fine gold of the sanctuary, by the reli-
gion of their beholder.
§ LXV. It is not, however, in every symbolical subject that
the fearful grotesque becomes embodied to the full. The
i element of distortion which affects the intellect when dealing
with subjects above its proper capacity, is as nothing compared
with that which it sustains from the direct impressions of
terror. It is the trembling of the human soul in the presence
death which most of all disturbs the images on the intellec-
__^^M^»^^*^ O
tual mirror, and invests them with the fitfulness and ghastli-
ness of dreams. And from the contemplation of death, and
of the pangs which follow his footsteps, arise in men's hearts
the troop of strange and irresistible superstitions which, more
or less melancholy or majestic according to the dignity of the
mind they impress, are yet never without a certain grotesque-
ness, following on the paralysis of the reason and over-excite-
ment of the fancy. I do not mean to deny the actual exist-
ence of spiritual manifestations; I have never weighed the
evidence upon the subject ; but with these, if such exist,., we
are not here concerned. r~Pfie"grotesque which we are examin-
samm-
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 157
ing arises__ouj-. of that condition of mind which appeal's to fol
lo\v naturally upon the contemplation of death, and in which
the fancy is brought into morbid action by terror, accom-
^paihecl by the belief in spiritual presence, and in the possibility
of spiritual apparition. Hence are developed its most sublime,
least voluntary, creations, aided by the fearfulness of
the phenomena of nature which are in any wise the ministers
of death, and primarily directed by the peculiar ghastliness of
expression in the skeleton, itself a species of terrible grotesque
in its relation to the perfect human frame.
§ LXVI. Thus, first born from the dusty and dreadful white-
ness of the charnel house, but softened in their forms by the
holiest of human affections, went forth the troop of wild and
wonderful images, seen through tears, that had the mastery
over our Northern hearts for so many ages. The powers of
sudden destruction lurking in the woods and waters, in the
rocks and clouds; — kelpie and gnome, Lurlei and Hartz
spirits ; the wraith and foreboding phantom ; the spectra of I
second sight ; the various conceptions of avenging or tor-
mented ghost, haunting the perpetrator of crime, or expiating!
its -commission ; and the half fictitious and contemplative, half]
visionary and believed images of the presence of death itself ,|
doing its daily work in the chambers of sickness and sin, anc
waiting for its hour in the fortalices of strength and the high!
places of pleasure ; — these, partly degrading us by the instinc-
tive and paralyzing terror with which they are attended, and •* /^
partly ennobling us by leading our thoughts to dwell in the y
eternal world, fill the last and the most important circle in
that great kingdom of dark and distorted power, of which we all , jL
must be in some sort the subjects until mortality shall be swal-
lowed up of life ; until the waters of the last f ordless river
cease to roll their untransparent volume between us and the
light of heaven, and neither death stand between us and our
brethren, nor symbols between us and our God.
§ Lxvn. We have now, I believe, obtained a view ap-
proaching to completeness of the various branches of human
feeling which are concerned in the developement of this pecu-
158
THIRD PERIOD.
liar form of art. It remains for us only to note, as briefly as
possible, what facts in the actual history of the grotesquejiear
boa our imm€dlale_£ujjject
what we have seen to be its nature, we must, I think,
^e led to one most important conclusion ; that wherever the
luman mind is healthy and vigorous in all its proportions,
greiat in imagination and emotion no less than in intellect, and
not overborne by an undue or hardened preeminence of the
mere reasoning facilities., thorn thn grates, qua will exist in ful
energy .r^Sud, -accordingly, 1 believe that there
ss in periods, nations, or men, more sure than the
developement, among them or in them, of a noble grotesque,
and no test of comparative smallness or limitation, of one kind
or another, more sure than the absence of grotesque invention,
or incapability of understanding it. I think that the central
man of all the world, as representing in perfect balance the
imaginative, moral, and intellectual faculties, all at their
highest, is Dfl.nt.ft;; and in him the grotesque reaches at once
the most distinct and the most noble developement to which it
was ever brought in the human mind. The two other greatest
men whom Italy has produced, Michael Angelo and Tintoret,
show the same element in no less original strength, but op-
pressed in the one by his science, and in both by the spirit of
the age in which they lived ; never, however, absent even in
Michael Angelo, but stealing forth continually in a strange
and spectral way, lurjdng, in folds *of raiment ami knots of
d hair, and mountainous confusions of craggy limb and
-i I, , , ^- ,- _ -- ~OQt/
cloudy drapery ; and, in Tintoret, ruling the entire conceptions
of his greatesT works to such a degree that they are an
inigma or an offence, even to this day, to all the petty disci-
a formal criticism. Of the grotesque in our own
hakspearell need hardly speak, nor of its intolerableness to
IsFrench critics ; nor of that of ^schylus and IJojaer, as
opposed to the lower Greek writers ; ancTso"! believe it will
be found, at all periods, in all minds of the first order.
§ LXVIII. As an index of the greatness of nations, it is a less
certain test, or, rather, we are not so well agreed on the mean-
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 159
ing of the term " greatness" respecting them. A nation may
produce a great effect, and take up a high place in the world's
history, by the temporary enthusiasm or fury of its multitudes,
without being truly great ; or, on the other hand, the disci-
pline of morality and common sense may extend its physical
power or exalt its well-being, while yet its creative and
imaginative powers are continually diminishing. And again :
a people may take so definite a lead over all the rest of the
world in one direction, as to obtain a respect which is not
justly due to them if judged on universal grounds. Thus the
Greeks perfected the sculpture of the human body ; threw
their literature into a disciplined form, which has given it a
peculiar power over certain conditions of modern mind ; and
were the most carefully educated race that the world has seen ;
but a few years hence, I believe, we shall no longer think
them a greater people than either the Egyptians or Assyrians.
§ LXIX. If, then, ridding ourselves as far as possible of pre-
judices owing merely to the school-teaching which remains
from the system of the Renaissance, we set ourselves to dis-
cover in what races the human soul, taken all in all, reached
its highest magnificence, we shall find, I believe, two great
families of men, one of the East and South, the other of the
West and North: the one including the Egyptians, Jews,
Arabians, Assyrians, and Persians; the other, I know not
whence derived, but seeming to flow forth from Scandinavia,
and filling the whole of Europe with its Norman and Gothic
energy. And in both these families, wherever they are seen
in their utmost nobleness, there the grotesque is developed in
its utmost energy ; and I hardly know whether most to admire
the winged bulls of Nineveh, or the winged dragons of
Verona.
§ LXX. The reader who has not before turned his attention
to this subject may, however, at first have some difficulty in
distinguishing between the noble grotesque of these great
nations, and the barbarous grotesque of mere savages, as seen
m the work of the Hindoo and other Indian nations ; or, more
grossly still, in that of the complete savage of the Pacific
160 THIRD PERIOD.
islands ; or if, as is to be hoped, he instinctively feels the dif-
ference, he may yet find difficulty in determining wherein
ithat difference consists. But he will discover., on considera-
[tion, that the noble jgrotesque involves the true appreciation
wf beauty, though the mind may wilfully turn to other images
or the hand resolutely stop short of the perfection which it
must fail, if it endeavored, to reach ; while the grotesque of
the Sandwich islander involves no perception or imagination
of anything above itself. He will find that in the exact pro-
portion in which the grotesque results from an incapability of
perceiving beauty, it becomes savage or barbarous ; and that
there are many stages of progress to be found in it even in its
best times, much truly savage grotesque occurring in the fine
Gothic periods, mingled with the other forms of the ignoble
grotesque resulting from vicious inclinations or base sportive-
ness. Nothing is more mysterious in the history of the human
mind, than the manner in which gross and ludicrous images
are mingled with the most solemn subjects in the work of
the middle ages, whether of sculpture or illumination ; and
although, in great part, such incongruities are to be accounted
for on the various principles which I have above endeavored
to define, in many instances they are clearly the result of vice
and sensuality. The general greatness of seriousness of an
age does not effect the restoration of human nature ; and it
would be strange, if, in the midst of the art even of the best
periods, when that art was entrusted to myriads of workmen,
we found no manifestations of impiety, folly, or impurity.
§ LXXI. It needs only to be added that in the noble grotesque,
as it is partly the result of a morbid state of the imaginative
power, that power itself will be always seen in a high degree ;
and that therefore our power of judging of the rank of a
grotesque work will depend on the degree in which we are
in general sensible of the presence of invention. The reader
may partly test this power in himself by referring to the
Plate given in the opening of this chapter, in which, on the
left, is a piece of noble and inventive grotesque, a head of the
lion-symbol of St. Mark, from the Veronese Gothic ; the other
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSAKCE. 161
is a head introduced as a boss on the foundation of the Palazzo
Corner della Regina at Venice, utterly devoid of invention,
made merely monstrous by exaggerations of the eyeballs and
cheeks, and generally characteristic of that late Renaissance
grotesque of Venice, with which we are at present more im-
mediately concerned.*
§ LXXII. The developement of that grotesque took place
under different laws from those which regulate it in any other
European city. For, great as we have seen the Byzantine
mind show itself to be in other directions, it was marked as
that of a declining nation by the absence of the grotesque ele-
ment ; and, owing to its influence, the early Venetian Gothic
remained inferior to all other schools in this particular charac-
ter. Nothing can well be more wonderful than its instant
failure in any attempt at the representation of ludicrous or
fearful images, more especially when it is compared with the
magnificent grotesque of the neighboring city of Verona, in
which the Lombard influence had full sway. Nor was it until
the last links of connexion with Constantinople had been dis-
solved, that the strength of the Venetian mind could manifest
itself in this direction. But it had then a new enemy to
encounter. The Renaissance laws altogether checked its imag-
ination in architecture ; and it could only obtain permission
to express itself by starting forth in the work of the Venetian
painters, filling them with monkeys and dwarfs, even amidst
the most serious subjects, and leading Veronese and Tintoret
to the most unexpected and wild fantasies of form and color.
§ LXXIII. We may be deeply thankful for this peculiar re-
* Note especially, in connexion with what was advanced in Vol. II.
respecting our English neatness of execution, how the base workman has
cut the lines of the architecture neatly and precisely round the abominable
head: but the noble workman has used his chisel like a painter's pencil,
and sketched the glory with a few irregular lines, anything rather than
circular; and struck out the whole head in the same frank and fearless way,
leaving the sharp edges of the stone as they first broke, and flinging back
the crest of hair from the forehead with half a dozen hammer-strokes,
while the poor wretch who did the other Avas half a day in smoothing its
vapid and vermicular curls.
162 THIRD PERIOD.
serve of the Gothic grotesque character to the last days of
Venice. All over the rest of Europe it had been strongest in
the days of imperfect art ; magnificently powerful throughout
the whole of the thirteenth century, tamed gradually in the
fourteenth and fifteenth, and expiring in the sixteenth amidst
anatomy and laws of art. But at Venice, it had not been re-
ceived when it was elsewhere in triumph, and it fled to the
lagoons for shelter when elsewhere it was oppressed. And it
was arrayed by the Venetian painters in robes of state, and
advanced by them to such honor as it had never received in its
days of widest dominion ; while, in return, it bestowed upon
their pictures that fulness, piquancy, decision of parts, and
mosaic-like intermingling of fancies, alternately brilliant and
sublime, which were exactly what was most needed for the de-
•velopement of their unapproachable color-power.
§ LXXIV. Yet, observe, it by no means follows that because
the grotesque does not appear in the art of a nation, the sense
of it does not exist in the national mind. Except in the form
of caricature, it is hardly traceable in the English work of the
present day ; but the minds of our workmen are full of it, if
we would only allow them to give it shape. They express it
daily in gesture and gibe, but are not allowed to do so where
it would be useful. In like manner, though the Byzantine
influence repressed it in the early Venetian architecture, it was
always present in the Venetian mind, and showed itself in
various forms of national custom and festival ; acted grotesques,
full of wit, feeling, and good-humor. The ceremony of the
hat and the orange, described in the beginning of this chapter,
is one instance out of multitudes. Another, more rude, and
exceedingly characteristicrwas that instituted in the twelfth
century in memorial of the submission of Woldaric, the patri-
arch of Aquileia, who, having taken up arms against the
patriarch of Grado, and being defeated and taken prisoner by the
Venetians, was sentenced, not to death, but to send every year
on " Fat Thursday " sixty-two large loaves, twelve fat pigs, and
a bull, to the Doge ; the bull being understood to represent the
patriarch, and the twelve pigs his clergy : and the ceremories
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 1C3
of the day consisting in the decapitation of these representa-
tives, and a distribution of their joints among the senators ;
together with a symbolic record of the attack upon Aquileia,
by the erection of a wooden castle in the rooms of the Ducal
Palace, which the Doge and the Senate attacked and demol-
ished with clubs. As long as the Doge and the Senate were
truly kingly and noble, they were content to let this ceremony
be continued ; but when they became proud and selfish, and
were destroying both themselves and the state by their luxury,
they found it inconsistent with their dignity, and it was abol-
ished, as far as the Senate was concerned, in 1549.*
§ LXXV. By these and other similar manifestations, the gro-
tesque spirit is traceable through all the strength of the Vene-
tian people. But again : it is necessary that we should carefully
distinguish between it and the spirit of mere levity. I said,
in the fifth chapter, that the Venetians were distinctively a
serious people, serious, that is 'to say, in the sense in which the
English are a more serious people than the French ; though
the habitual intercourse of our lower classes in London has a
tone of humor in it which I believe is untraceable in that of
the Parisian populace. It is one thing to indulge in playful
rest, and another to be devoted to the pursuit of pleasure : and
gaiety of heart during the reaction after hard labor, and quick-
ened by satisfaction in the accomplished duty or perfected
result, is altogether compatible with, nay, even in some sort
arises naturally out of, a deep internal seriousneap
tion ; this latter being exactly the conditioji-£f-rnind-w4»tek.
aJjTwe have seen, leads to the richest ^develftpements of the play-
jnY grotesque.; while, on tiie contrary, the continual pursuit of
pleasure deprives the soul of all alacrity and elasticity, and
leaves it incapable of happy jesting, capable only of that which
is bitter, base, and foolish. Thus, throughout the whole of the
early career of the Venetians, though there is much jesting,
there is no levity ; on the contrary there is an intense earnest-
ness both in their pursuit of commercial and political successes,
* The decree is quoted by Mutinelli, lib. i. p. 48,
164 THIRD PERIOD.
and in their devotion to religion,* which led gradually to the
formation of that highly wrought mingling of immovable reso-
lution with secret thoughtfulness, which so strangely, some-
times so darkly, distinguishes the Venetian character at the
time of their highest power, when the seriousness was left, but
the conscientiousness destroyed. And if there be any one sign
by which the Venetian countenance, as it is recorded for us, to
the very life, by a school of portraiture which has never been
equalled (chiefly because no portraiture ever had subjects so
noble), — I say, if there be one thing more notable than another
in the Venetian features, it is this deep pensiveness and solem-
nity. In other districts of Italy, the dignity of the heads
which occur in the most celebrated compositions is clearly
owing to the feeling of the painter. He has visibly raised or
idealized his models, and appears always to be veiling the faults
or failings of the human nature around him, so that the best
of his work is that which has most perfectly taken the color of
his own mind ; and the least impressive, if not the least valua-
ble, that which appears to have been unaffected and unmodified
portraiture. But at Venice, all is exactly the reverse of this.
The tone of mind in the painter appears often in some degree
frivolous or sensual ; delighting in costume, in domestic and
grotesque incident, and in studies of the naked form. But
the moment he gives himself definitely to portraiture, all is
noble and grave ; the more literally true his work, the more
majestic ; and the same artist who will produce little beyond
what is commonplace in painting a Madonna or an apostle, will
rise into unapproachable sublimity when his subject is a mem-
ber of the Forty, or a Master of the Mint.
Such, then, were the general tone and progress of the
Venetian mind, up to the close of the seventeenth century.
First, serious, religious, -and sincere ; then, though serious still,
comparatively deprived of conscientiousness, and apt to decline
into stern and subtle policy : in the first case, the spirit of the
noble grotesque not showing itself in art at all, but only in
* See Appendix 9.
III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 105
speech and action; in the second case, developing itself in
painting, through accessories and vivacities of composition,
while perfect dignity was always preserved in portraiture. A
third phase rapidly developed itself.
§ LXXVI. Once more, and for the last time, let me refer the
reader to the important epoch of the death of the Doge
Tomaso Mocenigo in 1423, long ago indicated as the commence-
ment of the decline of the Venetian power. That commence-
ment is marked, not merely by the words of the dying Prince,
but by a great and clearly legible sign. It is recorded, that
on the accession of his successor, Foscari, to the throne, " Si
FESTEGGIO DALLA CITTA UNO ANNO ESTTERO l" " The city kept
festival for a whole year." Venice had in her childhood sown,
in teare, the harvest she was to reap in rejoicing. She now
sowed in laughter the seeds of death.
Thenceforward, year after year, the nation drank with
deeper thirst from the fountains of forbidden pleasure, and
dug for springs, hitherto unknown, in the dark places of the
earth. In the ingenuity of indulgence, in the varieties of
vanity, Venice surpassed the cities of Christendom, as of old
she surpassed them in fortitude and devotion ; and as once the
powers of Europe stood before her judgment-seat, to receive
the decisions of her justice, so now the youth of Europe assem-
bled in the halls of her luxury, to learn from her the arts of
delight.
It is as needless, as it is painful, to trace the steps of her
final ruin. That ancient curse was upon her, the curse of the
cities of the plain, " Pride, fulness of bread, and abundance of
idleness." By the inner burning of her own passions, as fatal
as the fiery reign of Gomorrah, she was consumed from her
place among the nations ; and her ashes are choking the chan-
nels of the dead salt sea.
CHAPTEE IV.
CONCLUSION.
§ i. I FEAE this chapter will be a rambling one, for it must
be a kind of supplement to the preceding pages, and a general
recapitulation of the things I have too imperfectly and feebly
said.
The grotesques of the seventeenth and eighteenth centu-
ries, the nature of which we examined in the last chapter, close
the career of the architecture of Europe. They were the last
evidences of any feeling consistent with itself, and capable of
directing the efforts of the builder to the formation of anything
worthy the name of a style or school. From ihat time to this,
no resuscitation of energy has taken place, nor does any for the
present appear possible. How long this impossibility may last,
and in what direction with regard to art in general, as well as
to our lifeless architecture, our immediate efforts may most
profitably be directed, are the questions I would endeavor
briefly to consider in the present chapter.
§ n. That modern science, with all its additions to the com-
forts of life, and to the fields of rational contemplation, has
placed the existing races of mankind on a higher platform than
any that preceded them, none can doubt for an instant ; and I
believe the position in which we find ourselves is somewhat
analogous to that of thoughtful and laborious youth succeeding
a restless and heedless infancy. Not long ago, it was said to
me by one of the masters of modern science : " When men in-
vented the locomotive, the child was learning to go ; when
they invented the telegraph, it was learning to speak." He
looked forward to the manhood of mankind, as assuredly the
nobler in proportion to the slowness of its developement. What
iv. CONCLUSION. 1GT
might not be expected from the prime and middle strength of
the order of existence whose infancy had lasted six thousand
years ? And, indeed, I think this the truest, as well as the
most cheering, view that we can take of the world's history.
Little progress has been made as yet. Base war, lying policy,
thoughtless cruelty, senseless improvidence, — all things which,
in nations, are analogous to the petulance, cunning, impatience,
and carelessness of infancy, — have been, up to this hour, as
characteristic of mankind as they were in the earliest periods ;
so that we must either be driven to doubt of human progress
at all, or look upon it as in its very earliest stage. Whether
the opportunity is to be permitted us to redeem the hours that
we have lost ; whether He, in whose sight a thousand years
are as one day, has appointed us to be tried by the continued
possession of the strange powers with which He has lately en-
dowed us ; or whether the periods of childhood and of proba-
tion are to cease together, and the youth of mankind is to be
one which shall prevail over death, and bloom for ever in the
midst of a new heaven and a new earth, are questions with
which we have no concern. It is indeed right that we should
look for, and hasten, so far as in us lies, the coming of the Day
of God ; but not that we should check any human efforts by
anticipations of its approach. We shall hasten it best by en-
deavoring to work out the tasks that are appointed for us here ;
and, therefore, reasoning as if the world were to continue un-
der its existing dispensation, and the powers which have just
been granted to us were to be continued through myriads of
future ages.
§ in. It seems to me, then, that the whole human race, so
far as their own reason can be trusted, may at present be re-
garded as just emergent from childhood ; and beginning for
the first time to feel their strength, to stretch their limbs, and
explore the creation around them. If we consider that, till
within the last fifty years, the nature of the ground we tread
on, of the air we breathe, and of the light by which we see,
were not eo much as conjecturally conceived by us ; that the
duration of the globe, and the races of animal life by which it
168 THIRD PERIOD.
was inhabited, are just beginning to be apprehended ; and that
the scope of the magnificent science which has revealed them,
is as yet so little received by the public mind, that presumption
and ignorance are still permitted to raise their voices against it
unrebuked ; that perfect veracity in the representation of gen-
eral nature by art has never been attempted until the present
day, and has in the present day been resisted with all the en-
ergy of the popular voice ;* that the simplest problems of so-
cial science are yet so little understood, as that doctrines of
liberty and equality can be openly preached, and so successfully
as to affect the whole body of the civilized world with appar-
ently incurable disease ; that the first principles of commerce
were acknowledged by the English Parliament only a few
months ago, in its free trade measures, and are still so little
understood by the million, that no nation dares to abolish its
custom-houses ; f that the simplest principles of policy are still
not so much as stated, far less received, and that civilized na-
tions persist in the belief that the subtlety and dishonesty which
they know to be ruinous in dealings between man and man, are
serviceable in dealings between multitude and multitude; fi-
nally, that the scope of the Christian religion, which we have
been taught for two thousand years, is still so little conceived
by us, that we suppose the laws of charity and of self-sacrifice
bear upon individuals in all their social relations, and yet do
not bear upon nations in any of their political relations ; — when,
I say, we thus review the depth of simplicity in which the hu-
* In the works of Turner and the Pre-Raphaelites.
f Observe, I speak of these various principles as self-evident, only under
the present circumstances of the world, not as if they had always been so;
and I call them now self-evident, not merely because they seem so to my-
self, but because they are felt to be so likewise by all the men in whom I
place most trust. But granting that they are not so, then their very dis-
putability proves the state of infancy above alleged, as characteristic of the
world. For I do not suppose that any Christian reader will doubt the first
great truth, that whatever facts or laws are important to mankind, God has
made ascertainable by mankind ; and that as the decision of all these ques-
tions is of vital importance to the race, that decision must have been long
ago arrived at, unless they were still in a state of childhood.
IV. CONCLUSION. 1G9
man race are still plunged witli respect to all that it most pro-
foundly concerns them to know, and which might, by them,
with most ease have been ascertained, we can hardly determine
how far back on the narrow path of human progress we ought
to place the generation to which we belong, how far the swad-
dling clothes are unwound from us, and childish things begin-
ning to be put away.
On the other hand, a power of obtaining veracity in the
representation of material and tangible things, which, within
certain limits and conditions, is unimpeachable, has now been
placed in the hands of all men,* almost without labor. The
foundation of every natural science is now at last firmly laid,
not a day passing without some addition of buttress and pinna-
cle to their already magnificent fabric. Social theorems, if
fiercely agitated, are therefore the more likely to be at last de-
termined, so that they never can be matters of question more.
Human life has been in some sense prolonged by the increased
powers of locomotion, and an almost limitless power of con-
verse. Finally, there is hardly any serious mind in Europe but
is occupied, more or less, in the investigation of the questions
which have so long paralyzed the strength of religious feeling,
and shortened the- dominion of religious faith. And we may
therefore at least look upon ourselves as so far in a definite
state of progress, as to justify our caution in guarding against
the dangers incident to every period of change, and especially
to that from childhood into youth.
§ iv. Those dangers appear, in the main, to be twofold ;
consisting partly in the pride of vain knowledge, partly in the
pursuit of vain pleasure. A few points are still to be noticed
with respect to each of these heads.
* I intended to have given a sketch in this place (above referred to) of
the probable results of the daguerreotype and calotype within the next few
years, in modifying the application of the engraver's art, but I have not
had time to complete the experiments necessary to enable me to speak with
certainty. Of one thing, however, I have little doubt, that an infinite ser-
vice will soon be done to a large body of our engravers; namely, the mak-
ing them draughtsmen (in black and white) on paper instead of steel
170 THIRD PERIOD.
Enough, it might be thought, had been said already, touch-
ing the pride of knowledge ; but I have not yet applied the
principles, at which we arrived in the third chapter, to the
practical questions of modern art. And I think those princi-
ples, together with what were deduced from the consideration
of the nature of Gothic in the second volume, so necessary and
vital, not only with respect to the progress of art, but even to
the happiness of society, that I will rather run the risk of
tediousness than of deficiency, in their illustration and en-
forcement.
In examining the nature of Gothic, we concluded that one
of the chief elements of power in that, and in all good archi-
tecture, was the acceptance of uncultivated and rude energy in
the workman. In examining the nature of Renaissance, we
concluded that its chief element of weakness was that pride of
knowledge which not only prevented all rudeness in expression,
but gradually quenched all energy which could only be rudely
expressed ; nor only so, but, for the motive and matter of the
work itself, preferred science to emotion, and experience to
perception.
§ v. The modern mind differs from the Renaissance mind
in that its learning is more substantial and extended, and its
temper more humble ; but its errors, with respect to the culti-
vation of art, are precisely the same, — nay, as far as regards
execution, even more aggravated. We require, at present,
from our general workmen, more perfect finish than was de-
manded in the most skilful Renaissance periods, except in their
very finest productions ; and our leading principles in teaching,
and in the patronage which necessarily gives tone to teaching,
are, that the goodness of work consists primarily in firmness of
handling and accuracy of science, that is to say, in hand-work
and head-work ; whereas heart-work, which is the one work \ve
want, is not only independent of both, but often, in great de-
gree, inconsistent with either.
§ vi. Here, therefore, let me finally and firmly enunciate
the great principle to which all that has hitherto been stated is
subservient : — that art is valuable or otherwise, only a* it ex-
IV. CONCLUSION. 171
presses the personality, activity, and living perception of a good
and great human soul ; that it may express and contain this
with little help from execution, and less from science ; and that
if it have not this, if it show not the vigor, perception, and in-
vention of a mighty human spirit, it is worthless. Worthless,
I mean, as art / it may be precious in some other way, but, as
art, it is nugatory. Once let this be well understood among us,
and magnificent consequences will soon follow. Let me repeat
it in other terms, so that I may not be misunderstood. All art
is great, and good, and true, only so far as it is distinctively the
work of manhood in its entire and highest sense ; that is to say,
not the work of limbs and fingers, but of the soul, aided, ac-
cording to her necessities, by the inferior powers ; and there-
fore distinguished in essence from all products of those inferior
powers unhelped by the soul. For as a photograph is not a
work of art, though it requires certain delicate manipulations
of paper and acid, and subtle calculations of time, in order to
bring out a good result ; so, neither would a drawing like a
photograph, made directly from nature, be a work of art, al-
though it would imply many delicate manipulations of the pen-
cil and subtle calculations of effects of color and shade. It is
no more art* to manipulate a camel's hair pencil, than to ma-
nipulate a china tray and a glass vial. It is no more art to lay
on color delicately, than to lay on acid delicately. It is no
more art to use the c6rnea and retina for the reception of an
image, than to use a lens and a piece of silvered paper. But
the moment that inner part of the man, or rather that entire
and only being of the man, of which cornea and retina, fingers
and hands, pencils and colors, are all the mere servants and in-
struments ; f that manhood which has light in itself, though the
* I mean art in its highest sense. All that men do ingeniously is art, in
one sense. In fact, we want a definition of the word "art" much more
accurate than any in our minds at present. For, strictly speaking, there is
no such thing as "fine" or " high" art. All art is a low and common thing,
and what we indeed respect is not art at all, but instinct or inspiration ex-
pressed by the help of art.
f "Socrates. This, then, was what I asked you; whether that which
172 THIED PEEIOD.
eyeball be sightless, and can gain in strength when the hand
and the foot are hewn off and cast into the fire ; the moment
this part of the man stands forth with its solemn u Behold, it is
I," then the work becomes art indeed, perfect in honor, price-
less in value, boundless in power.
§ vn. Yet observe, I do not mean to speak of the body and
soul as separable. The man is made up of both : they are to
be raised and glorified together, and all art is an expression of
the one, by and through the other. All that I would insist
upon is, the necessity of the whole man being in his work ; the
body must be in it. Hands and habits must be in it, whether
we will or not ; but the nobler part of the man may often not
be in it. And that nobler part acts principally in love, rever-
ence, and admiration, together with those conditions of thought
which arise out of them. For we usually fall into much error
by considering the intellectual powrers as having dignity in
themselves, and separable from the heart ; whereas the truth
is, that the intellect becomes noble and ignoble according to the
food we give it, and the kind of subjects with which it is con-
versant. It is not the reasoning power which, of itself, is no-
puts anything else to service, and the thing which is put to service by it, are
always two different things?
Alcibiades. I think so.
Socrates. What shall we then«say of the leather-cutter? Does he cut his
leather with his instruments only, or with his hands also?
Alcibiades. "With his hands also.
Socrates. Does he not use his eyes as well as his hands?
Alcibiades. Yes.
Socrates. And we agreed that the thing which uses and the thing which
is used, were different things?
Alcibiades. Yes.
Socrates. Then the leather-cutter is not the same thing as his eyes or
hands?
Alcibiades. So it appears.
Socrates. Does not, then, man make use of his whole body?
Alcibiades. Assuredly.
Socrates. Then the man is not the same thing as his body? -
Alcibiades. It seems so.
Socrates. What, then, is the man?
Alcibiades. I know not." Plato, Alcibiades L
IV. CONCLUSION. 173
ble, but the reasoning power occupied with its proper objects.
Half of the mistakes of metaphysicians have arisen from their
not observing this ; namely, that the intellect, going through
the same processes, is yet mean or noble according to the mat-
ter it deals with, and wastes itself . away in mere rotatory mo-
tion, if it be set to grind straws and dust. If we reason only
respecting words, or lines, or any trifling and finite things, the
reason becomes a contemptible faculty ; but reason employed on
holy and infinite things, becomes herself holy and infinite. So
that, by work of the soul, I mean the reader always to under-
stand the work of the entire immortal creature, proceeding from
a quick, perceptive, and eager heart, perfected by the intellect,
and finally dealt with by the hands, under the direct guidance
of these higher powers.
§ vin. And now observe, the first important consequence of
our fully understanding this preeminence of the soul, will be
the due understanding of that subordination of knowledge re*
specting which so much has already been said. For it must
be felt at once, that the increase of knowledge, merely as such,
does not make the soul larger or smaller ; that, in the sight of
God, all the knowledge man can gain is as nothing : but that
the soul, for which the great scheme of redemption was laid, be
it ignorant or be it wise, is all in all ; and in the activity,
strength, health, and well-being of this soul, lies the main dif-
ference, in His sight, between one man and another. And
that which is all in all in God's estimate is also, be assured, all
in all in man's labor ; and to have the heart open, and the eyes
clear, and the emotions and thoughts warm and quick, and not
the knowing of this or the other fact, is the state needed for
all mighty doing in this world. And therefore finally, for this,
the weightiest of all reasons, let us take no pride in our knowl-
edge. We may, in a certain sense, be proud of being immortal ;
we may be proud of being God's children ; we may be proud of
loving, thinking, seeing, and of all that we are by no human
teaching : but not of what we have been taught by rote ; not of
the ballast and freight of the ship of the spirit, but onty of its
pilotage, without which all the freight will only sink it faster,
174 THIRD PEKIOD.
and strew the sea more richly with its ruin. There is not
at this moment a youth of twenty, having received what we
moderns ridiculously call education, but he knows more of
everything, except the soul, than Plato or St. Paul did ; but
he is not for that reason a greater man, or fitter for his work,
or more fit to be heard by others, than Plato or St. Paul.
There is not at this moment a junior student in our schools of
painting, who does not know fifty times as much about the
art as Giotto did ; but he is not for that reason greater than
Giotto ; no, nor his work better, nor fitter for our beholding.
Let him go on to know all that the human intellect can dis-
cover anjl contain in the term of a long life, and he will not
be one inch, one line, nearer to Giotto's feet. But let him
leave his academy benches, and, innocently, as one knowing
nothing, go out into the highways, and hedges, and there re-
joice with them that rejoice, and weep with them that weep ;
and in the next world, among the companies of the great and
good, Giotto will give his hand to him, and lead him into their
white circle, and say, " This is our brother."
§ ix. And the second important consequence of our feel-
ing the soul's preeminence will be our understanding the soul's
language, however broken, or low, or . feeble, or obscure in its
words ; and chiefly that great symbolic language of past ages,
which has now so long been unspoken. It is strange that the
same cold and formal spirit which the Renaissance teaching
has raised amongst us, should be equally dead to the languages
of imitation and of symbolism ; and should at once disdain the
faithful rendering of real nature by the modern school of the
Pre-Raphaelites, and the symbolic rendering of imagined nature
in the work of the thirteenth century. But so it is ; and we
find the same body of modern artists rejecting Pre-Raphael it-
ism because it is not ideal ! and thirteenth century work, be-
cause it is not real ! — their own practice being at once false
and un-ideal, and therefore equally opposed to both.
§ x. It is therefore, at this juncture, of much importance
to mark for the reader the exact relation of healthy sym-
bolism and of healthy imitation ; and, in order to do so, let us
IV. CONCLUSION. 175
return to one of our Venetian examples of symbolic art, to the
central cupola of St. Mark's. On that cupola, as has been
already stated, there is a mosaic representing the Apostles on
the Mount of Olives, with an olive-tree separating each from
the other ; and we shall easily arrive at our purpose, by com-
paring the means which would have been adopted by a modern
artist bred in the Renaissance schools, — that is to say, under
the influence of Claude and Poussin, and of the common teach-
ing of the present day, — with those adopted by the Byzantine
mosaicist to express the nature of these trees.
§ xi. The reader is doubtless aware that the olive is one of
the most characteristic and beautiful features of all Southern
scenery. On the slopes of the northern Apennines, olives are
the usual forest timber ; the whole of the Val d'Arno is wooded
with them, every one of its gardens is filled with them, and
they grow in orchard-like ranks out of its fields of maize, or
com, or vine ; so that it is physically impossible, in most parts
of the neighborhood of Florence, Pistoja, Lucca, or Pisa, to
choose any site of landscape which shall not owe its leading
character to the foliage of these trees. What the elm and oak
are to England, the olive is to Italy ; nay, more than this, its
presence is so constant, that, in the case of at least four fifths
of the drawings made by any artist in North Italy, he must
have been somewhat impeded by branches of olive coming be-
tween him and the landscape. Its classical associations double
its importance in Greece ; and in the Holy Land the remem-
brances connected with it are of course more touching than
can ever belong to any other tree of the field. Now, for many
years back, at least one third out of all the landscapes painted
by English artists have been chosen from Italian scenery;
sketches in Greece and in the Holy Land have become as com-
mon as sketches on Hampstead Heath ; our galleries also are
full of sacred subjects, in which, if any background be intro-
duced at all, the foliage of the olive ought to have been a
prominent feature.
And here I challenge the untravelled English reader to tell
nie what an olive-tree is like ?
176 THIRD PERIOD.
§ xn. I know he cannot answer my challenge. He has no
more idea of an olive-tree than if 'olives grew only in the fixed
stars. Let him meditate a little on this one fact, and consider
its strangeness, and what a wilful and constant closing of the
eyes to the most important truths it indicates on the part of
the modern artist. Observe, a want of perception, not of sci-
ence. I do not want painters to tell me any scientific facts
about olive-trees. But it had been well for them to have felt
and seen the olive-tree ; to have loved it for Christ's sake,
partly also for the helmed Wisdom's sake which was to the
heathen in some sort as that nobler Wisdom which stood at
God's right hand, when He founded the earth and established
the heavens. To have loved it, even to the hoary dimness of
its delicate foliage, subdued and faint of hue, as if the ashes of
the Gethsemane agony had been cast upon it for ever ; and to
have traced, line by line, the gnarled writhing of its intricate
branches, and the pointed fretwork of its light and narrow
leaves, inlaid on the blue field of the sky, and the small rosy-
white stars of its spring blossoming, and the beads of sable
fruit scattered by autumn along its topmost boughs — the right,
in Israel, of the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow, — and,
more than all, the softness of the mantle, silver grey, and tender
like the down on a bird's breast, with which, far away, it veils
the undulation of the mountains ; — these it had been well for
them to have seen and drawn, whatever they had left unstudied
in the gallery.
§ xin. And if the reader would know the reason why this
has not been done (it is one instance only out of the myriads
which might be given of sightlessness in modern art), and will
ask the artists themselves, he will be informed of another of
the marvellous contradictions and inconsistencies in the base
Renaissance art ; for it will be answered him, that it is not
right, nor according to law, to draw trees so that one should be
known from another, but that trees ought to be generalized
into a universal idea of a tree : that is to say, that the very
school which carries its science in the representation of man
down to the dissection of the most minute muscle, refuses so
IV. CONCLUSION. 177
much science to the drawing of a tree as shall distinguish one
species from another; and also, while it attends to logic, and
rhetoric, and perspective, and atmosphere, and every other cir-
cumstance which is trivial, verbal, external, or accidental, in
what it either says or sees, it will not attend to what is essen-
tial and substantial, — being intensely solicitous, for instance, if
it draws two trees, one behind the other, that the farthest off
shall be as much smaller as mathematics show that it should
be, but totally unsolicitous to show, what to the spectator is a
far more important matter, whether it is an apple or an orange-
tree.
§ xiv. This, however, is not to our immediate purpose. Let
it be granted that an idea of an olive-tree is indeed to be given
us in a special manner; how, and by what language, this idea
is to be conveyed, are questions on which we shall find the
world of artists again divided ; and it was this division which
I wished especially to illustrate by reference to the mosaics of
St. Mark's.
Now the main characteristics of an olive-tree are these. It
has sharp and slender leaves of a greyish green, nearly grey
on the under surface, and resembling, but somewhat smaller
than, those of our common willow. Its fruit, when ripe, is
black and lustrous ; but of course so small, that, unless in great
quantity, it is not conspicuous upon the tree. Its trunk and
branches are peculiarly fantastic in their twisting, showing
their fibres at every turn ; and the trunk is often hollow, and
even rent into many divisions like separate stems, but the ex-
tremities are exquisitely graceful, especially in the setting on
of the leaves ; and the notable and characteristic effect of the
tree in the distance is of a rounded and soft mass or ball of
downy foliage.
§ xv. Supposing a modern artist to address himself to the
rendering of this tree with his best skill : he will probably
draw accurately the twisting of the branches, but yet this will
hardly distinguish the tree from an oak : he will also render
the color and intricacy of the foliage, but this will only confuse
the idea of an oak with that of a willow. The fruit, and the
178 THIRD PERIOD.
peculiar grace of the leaves at the extremities, and the fibrous
structure of the stems, will all be too minute to be rendered
consistently with his artistical feeling of breadth, or with the
amount of labor which he considers it dexterous and legitimate
to bestow upon the work : but, above all, the rounded and mo-
notonous form of the head of the tree will be at variance with
his ideas of " composition ;" he will assuredly disguise or break
it, and the main points of the olive-tree will all at last remain
untold.
§ xvi. Now observe, the old Byzantine mosaicist begins
his work at enormous disadvantage. It is to be some one
hundred and fifty feet above the eye, in a dark cupola ; execu^
ted not with free touches of the pencil, but with square pieces
of glass ; not by his own hand, but by various workmen under
his superintendence ; finally, not with a principal purpose of
drawing olive-trees, but mainly as a decoration of the cupola.
There is to be an olive-tree beside each apostle, and their stems
are to be the chief lines which divide the dome. He therefore
at once gives up the irregular twisting of the boughs hither
and thither, but he will not give up their fibres. Other trees
have irregular and fantastic branches, but the knitted cordage
of fibres is the olive's own. Again, were he to draw the leaves
of their natural size, they would be so small that their forms
would be invisible in the darkness ; and were he to draw them
so large as that their shape might be seen, they would look like
laurel instead of olive. So he arranges them in small clusters
of five each, nearly of the shape which the Byzantines give to
the petals of the lily, but elongated so as to give the idea of leaf-
age upon a spray ; and these clusters, — his object always, be it
remembered, being decoration not less than representation, —
he arranges symmetrically on each side of his branches, laying
the whole on a dark ground most truly suggestive of the heavy
rounded mass of the tree, which, in its turn, is relieved against
the gold of the cupola. Lastly, comes the question respecting
the fruit. The whole power and honor of the olive is in its
fruit ; and, unless that be represented, nothing is represented.
But if the berries were colored black or green, they would be
IV. CONCLUSION. 179
totally invisible; if -of any other color, utterly unnatural, and
violence would be done to the whole conception. There is but
one conceivable means of showing them, namely to represent
them as golden. For the idea of golden fruit of various kinds
was already familiar to the mind, as in the apples of the Hes-
perides, without any violence to the distinctive conception of
the fruit itself.* So the mosaicist introduced small round
golden berries into the dark ground between each leaf, and his
work was done.
§ xvn. On the opposite plate, the uppermost figure on the
left is a tolerably faithful representation of the general effect
of one of these decorative olive-trees ; the figure on the right
is the head of the tree alone, showing the leaf clusters, berries,
and interlacing of the boughs as they leave the stem. Each
bough is connected with a separate line of fibre in the trunk,
and the junctions of the arms and stem are indicated, down to
the very root of the tree, with a truth in structure which may
well put to shame the tree anatomy of modern times.
§ xvni. The white branching figures upon the . serpentine
band below are two of the clusters of flowers which form the
foreground of a mosaic in the atrium. I have printed the
whole plate in blue, because that color approaches more nearly
than black to the distant effect of the' mosaics, of which the
darker portions are generally composed of blue, in greater
quantity than any other color. But the waved background in
this instance, is of various shades of blue and green alternately,
with one narrow black band to give it force ; the whole being
intended to represent the distant effect and color of deep grass,
and the wavy line to express its bending motion, just as the
same symbol is used to represent the waves of water. Then
the two white clusters are representative of the distinctly visi-
* Thus the grapes pressed by Excesse are partly golden (Spenser, book
ii. cant. 12.):
" Which did themselves amongst the leaves enfold,
As lurking from the view of covetous guest,
That the weake boughes, with so rich load opprest
Did bow adowne as overburdened."
180 THIRD PERIOD,
ble herbage close to the spectator, having buds and flowers of
two kinds, springing in one case out of the midst of twisted
grass, and in the other out of their own proper leaves ; the
clusters being kept each so distinctly symmetrical, as to form,
when set side by side, an ornamental border of perfect archi-
tectural severity ; and yet each cluster different from the next,
and every flower, and bud, and knot of grass, varied in form
and thought. The way the mosaic tesserae are arranged, so as
to give the writhing of the grass blades round the stalks of the
flowers, is exceedingly fine.
The tree circles below are examples of still more severely
conventional forms, adopted, on principle, when the decoration
is to be in white and gold, instead of color ; these ornaments
being cut in white marble on the outside of the church, and
the ground laid in with gold, though necessarily here repre-
sented, like the rest of the plate, in blue. And it is exceed-
ingly interesting to see how the noble workman, the moment
lie is restricted to more conventional materials, retires into more
conventional forms, and reduces his various leafage into sym-
metry, now nearly perfect ; yet observe, in the central figure,
where the symbolic meaning of the vegetation beside the cross
required it to be more distinctly indicated, he has given it life
and growth by throwing it into unequal curves on the opposite
sides.
§ xix. I believe the reader will now see, that in these
mosaics, which the careless traveller is in the habit of passing
by with contempt, there is a depth of feeling and of meaning
greater than in most of the best sketches from nature of mod-
ern times ; and, without entering into any question whether
these conventional representations are as good as, under the re-
quired limitations, it was 'possible to render them, they are at
all events good enough completely to illustrate that mode of
symbolical expression which appeals altogether to thought, and
in no wise trusts to realization. And little as, in the present
state of our schools, such an assertion is likely to be believed,
the fact is that this kind of expression is the only one allow-
able in noble art.
IV. CONCLUSION. 181
§ xx. I pray the reader to have patience with me for a few
moments. I do not mean that no art is noble but Byzantine
mosaic ; but no art is noble which in any wise depends upon
direct imitation for its effect upon the mind. This was asserted
in the opening chapters of " Modern Painters," but not upon
the highest grounds ; the results at which we have now arrived
in our investigation of early art, will enable me to place it on
a loftier and firmer foundation.
§ xxi. We have just seen that all great art is the work of
the whole living creature, body and soul, and chiefly of the
soul. But it is not only ike work of the whole creature, it like-
wise addresses the whole creature. That in which the perfect
being speaks, must also have the perfect being to listen. I am
not to spend my utmost spirit, and give all my strength and
life to my work, while you, spectator or hearer, will give me only
the attention of half your soul. You must be all mine, as 1
am all yours ; it is the only condition on which we can meet
each other. All your faculties, all that is in you of greatest
and best, must be awake in you, or I have no reward. The
painter is not to cast the entire treasure of his human nature
into his labor, merely to please a part of the beholder : not
merely to delight his senses, not merely to amuse his fancy,
not merely to beguile him into emotion, not merely to lead
him into thought, but to do all this. Senses, fancy, feeling,
reason, the whole of the beholding spirit, must be stilled in at-
tention or stirred with delight ; else the laboring spirit has not
done its work well. For observe, it is not merely its right to
be thus met, face to face, heart to heart ; but it is its duty to
evoke its answering of the other soul ; its trumpet call must be
so clear, that though the challenge may by dulness or indo-
lence be unanswered, there shall be no error as to the meaning
of the appeal ; there must be a summons in the work, which
it shall be our own fault if we do not obey. We require this
of it, we beseech this of it. Most men do not know what is
in them, till they receive this summons from their fellows :
their hearts die within them, sleep settles upon them, the leth-
argy of the world's miasmata ; there is nothing for which they
182 THIKD PERIOD.
are so thankful as for that cry, " Awake, thou that sleepest."
And this cry must be most loudly uttered to their noblest fac-
ulties ; first of all to the imagination, for that is the most ten-
der, and the soonest struck into numbness by the poisoned air ;
so that one of the main functions of art in its service to man,
is to arouse the imagination from its palsy, like the angel troub-
ling the Bethesda pool ; and the art which does not do this is
'false to its duty, and degraded in its nature. It is not enough
that it be well imagined, it must task the beholder also to im-
agine well ; and this so imperatively, that if he does not choose
to rouse himself to meet the work, he shah1 not taste it, nor en-
joy it in any wise. Once that he is well awake, the guidance
which the artist gives him should be full and authoritative :
the beholder's imagination must not be suffered to take its own
way, or wander hither and thither ; but neither must it be left
at rest ; and the right point of realization, for any given work
of art, is that which will enable the spectator to complete it
for himself, in the exact way the artist would have him, but
not that which will save him the trouble of effecting the com-
pletion. So soon as the idea is entirely conveyed, the artist's
labor should cease ; and every touch which he adds beyond the
point when, with the help of the beholder's imagination, the
story ought to have been told, is a degradation to his work.
So that the art is wrong, which either realizes its subject com-
pletely, or fails in giving such definite aid as shall enable it to
be realized by the beholding imagination.
§ xxu. It follows, therefore, that the quantity of finish or
detail which may rightly be bestowed upon any work, depends
on the number and kind of ideas which the artist wishes to
convey, much more than on the amount of realization necessary
to enable the imagination to grasp them. It is true that the
differences of judgment formed by one or another observer are
in great degree dependent on their unequal imaginative powers,
as well as their unequal efforts in following the artist's inten-
tion ; and it constantly happens that the drawing which appears
clear to the painter in whose mind the thought is formed, is
IV. CONCLUSION. 183
slightly inadequate to suggest it to tlie spectator. These causes
of false judgment, or imperfect achievement, must always exist,
but they are of no importance. For, in nearly every mind,
the imaginative power, however unable to act independently,
is so easily helped and so brightly animated by the most ob-
scure suggestion, that there is no form of artistical language
which will not readily be seized by it, if once it set itself in-
telligently to the task ; and even without such effort there are
few hieroglyphics .of which, once understanding that it is to
take them as hieroglyphics, it cannot make itself a pleasant
picture.
§ xxin. Thus, in the case of all sketches, etchings, unfinish-
ed engravings, &c., no one ever supposes them to be imitations.
Black outlines on white paper cannot produce a deceptive re-
semblance of anything ; and the mind, understanding at once
that it is to depend on its own powers for great part of its
pleasure, sets itself so actively to the task that it can completely
enjoy the rudest outline in which meaning exists. Now, when
it is once in this temper, the artist is infinitely to be blamed
who insults it by putting anything into his work which is not
suggestive : having summoned the imaginative power, he must
turn it to account and keep it employed, or it will run against
him in indignation. Whatever he does merely to realize and
substantiate an idea is impertinent ; he is like a dull story-teller,
dwelling on points which the hearer anticipates or disregards.
The imagination will say to him : " I knew all that before ; I
don't want to be told that. Go on ; or be silent, and let
me go on in my own way. I can tell the story better than
you."
Observe, then, whenever finish is given for the sake of reali-
zation, it is wrong ; whenever it is given for the sake of add-
ing ideas it is right. All true finish consists in the addition of
ideas, that is to say, in giving the imagination more food ; for
once well awaked, it is ravenous for food : but the painter who
finishes in order to substantiate takes the food out of its mouth,
and it will turn and rend him.
184 THIRD PERIOD.
§ xxrv. Let us go back, for instance, to our olive grove, —
or, lest the reader should be tired of olives, let it be an oak
copse, — and consider the difference between the substantiating
and the imaginative methods of finish in such a subject. A
few strokes of the pencil, or dashes of color, will be enough to
enable the imagination to conceive a tree ; and in those dashes
of color Sir Joshua Reynolds would have rested, and would
have suffered the imagination to paint what more it liked for
itself, and grow oaks, or olives, or apples, out of the few dashes
of color at its leisure. On the other hand, Hobbima, one of
the worst of the realists, smites the imagination on the mouth,
and bids it be silent, while he sets to work to paint his oak of
the right green, and fill up its foliage laboriously with jagged
touches, and furrow the bark all over its branches, so as, if pos-
sible, to deceive us into supposing that we are looking at a real
oak ; which, indeed, we had much better do at once, without
giving any one the trouble to deceive us in the matter.
§ xxv. Now, the truly great artist neither leaves the imagi-
i,iation to itself, like Sir Joshua, nor insults it by realization,
like Hobbima, but finds it continual employment of the hap-
piest kind. Having summoned it by his vigorous first touches,
he says to it : " Here is a tree for you, and it is to be an oak.
Now I know that you can make it green and intricate for your-
self, but that is not enough : an oak is not only green and in-
tricate, but its leaves have most beautiful and fantastic forms
which I am very sure you are not quite able to complete with-
out help ; so I will draw a cluster or two perfectly for you,
and then you can go on and do all the other clusters. So far
so good : but the leaves are not enough ; the oak is to be full
of acorns, and you may not be quite able to imagine the way
they grow, nor the pretty contrast of their glossy almond-
shaped nuts with the chasing of their cups ; so I will draw a
bunch or two of acorns for you, and you can fill up the oak
with others like them. Good : but that is not enough ; it is to
be a bright day in summer, and all the outside leaves are to be
glittering in the sunshine as if their edges were of gold : I can-
not paint this, but you can; so I will really gild some of the
iv. CONCLUSION. 185
edges nearest you,* and you can turn the gold into sunshine,
and cover the tree with it. Well done : but still this is not
enough ; the tree is so full foliaged and so old that the wood
birds come in crowds to build there ; they are singing, two or
three under the shadow of every bough. I cannot show you
them all ; but here is a large one on the outside spray, and you
can fancy the others inside."
§ xxvi. In this way the calls upon the imagination are mul-
tiplied as a great painter finishes ; and from these larger inci-
dents he may proceed into the most minute particulars, and
lead the companion imagination to the veins in the leaves and
the mosses on the trunk, and the shadows of the dead leaves
upon the grass, but always multiplying thoughts, or subjects of
thought, never working for the sake of realization ; the amount
of realization actually reached depending on his space, his
materials, and the nature of the thoughts he wishes to suggest.
In the sculpture of an oak-tree, introduced above an Adoration
of the Magi on the tomb of the Doge Marco Dolfino (four-
teenth century), the sculptor has been content with a few
leaves, a single acorn, and a bird ; while, on the other hand,
Millais' willow-tree with the robin, in the background of his
" Ophelia," or the foreground of Hunt's " Two Gentlemen of
Verona," carries the appeal to the imagination into particulars
so multiplied and minute, that the work nearly reaches realiza-
tion. But it does not matter how near realization the work
may approach in its fulness, or how far off it may remain in
its slightness, so long as realization is not the end proposed,
but the informing one spirit of the thoughts of another. And
i:i this greatness and simplicity of purpose all noble art is alike,
however slight its means, or however perfect, from the rudest
mosaics of St. Mark's to the most tender finishing of the
"Huguenot" or the "Ophelia."
§ xxvii. Only observe, in this matter, that a greater degree
* The reader must not suppose that the use of gold, in this manner, is
confined to early art. Tintoret, the greatest master of pictorial effect that
ever existed, has gilded the ribs of the fig-leaves in his "Resurrection," in
the Scuola di San Rocco,
186 THIRD PERIOD.
of realization is often allowed, for the sake of color, than would
be right without it. For there is not any distinction between
the artists of the inferior and the nobler schools more definite
than this ; that the first color for the sake of realization, and
the second realize for the sake of color. I hope that, in the
fifth chapter, enough has been said to show the nobility of
color, though it is a subject on which I would fain enlarge
whenever I approach it : for tKere is none that needs more to
be insisted upon, chiefly on account of the opposition of the
persons who have no eye for color, and who, being therefore
unable to understand that it is just as divine and distinct in its
power as music (only infinitely more varied in its harmonies),
talk of it as if it were inferior and servile with respect to the
other powers of art ; * whereas it is so far from being this, that
wherever it enters it must take the mastery, and, whatever else
is sacrificed for its sake, it, at least, must be right. This is
partly the case' even with music : it is at our choice, whether
we will accompany a poem with music, or not ; but, if we do,
the music must be right, and neither discordant nor inexpres-
sive. The goodness and sweetness of the poem cannot save it,
if the music be harsh or false ; but, if the music be right, the
poem .may be insipid or inharmonious, and still saved by the
notes to which it is wedded. But this is far more true of color.
If that be wrong, all is wrong. No amount of expression or
* Nothing is more wonderful to me than to hear the pleasure of the eye,
in color, spoken of with disdain as "sensual," while people exalt that of
the ear in music. Do they really suppose the eye is a less noble bodily
organ than the ear, — that the organ by which nearly all our knowledge of
the external universe is communicated to us, and through which we learn
the wonder and the love, can be less exalted in its own peculiar delight than
the ear, which is only for the communication of the ideas which owe to the
eye their very existence? I do not mean to depreciate music: let it be loved
and reverenced as is just; only let the delight of the eye be reverenced
more. The great power of music over the multitude is owing, not to its
being less but more sensual than color; it is so distinctly and so richly
sensual, that it can be idly enjoyed ; it is exactly at the point where the
lower and higher pleasures of the senses and imagination are balanced ; so
that pure and great minds love it for its invention and emotion, and lower
minds for its sensual power.
IVi CONCLUSION-. 187
invention can redeem an ill-colored picture; while, on the
other hand, if the color be right, there is nothing it will not
raise or redeem ; and, therefore, wherever color enters at all,
anything may be sacrificed to it, and, rather than it should be
false or feeble, everything must be sacrificed to it : so that,
when an artist touches color, it is the same thing as when a
poet takes up a musical instrument ; he implies, in so doing,
that he is a master, up to a certain point, of that instrument,
and can produce sweet sound from it, and is able to fit the
course and measure of his words to its tones, which, if he be
not able to do, he had better not have touched it. In like
manner, to add color to a drawing is to undertake for the per-
fection of a visible music, which, if it be false, will utterly and
assuredly mar the whole work ; if true, proportionately elevate
it, according to its power and sweetness. But, in no case ought
the color to be added in order to increase the realization. The
drawing or engraving is all that the imagination needs. To
" paint " the subject merely to make it more real, is only to in-
sult the imaginative power, and to vulgarize the whole. Hence
the common, though little understood feeling, among men of
ordinary cultivation, that an inferior sketch is always better
than a bad painting ; although, in the latter, there may verily
be more skill than in the former. For the painter who has
presumed to touch color without perfectly understanding it,
not for the color's sake, nor because he loves it, but for the
sake of completion merely, has committed two sins against us ;
he has dulled the imagination by not trusting it far enough,
and then, in this languid state, he oppresses it with base and
false color ; for all color that is not lovely, is discordant ; there
is no mediate condition. So, therefore, when it is permitted
to enter at all, it must be with the predetermination that, cost
what it will, the color shall be right and lovely : and I only
wish that, in general, it were better understood that a painter '«
business is to paint, primarily ; and that all expression, and
grouping, and conceiving, and what else goes to constitute
design, are of less importance than color, in a colored work.
And so they were always considered in the noble periods ; and
188 THIRD
sometimes all resemblance to nature whatever (as in painted1
windows, illuminated manuscripts, and such other work) is
sacrificed to the brilliancy of color ; sometimes distinctness of
form to its richness, as by Titian, Turner, and Reynolds ; and,
which is the point on which we are at present insisting, some-
times, in the pursuit of its utmost refinements on the surfaces
of objects, an amount of realization becomes consistent with
noble art, which would otherwise be altogether inadmissible,
that is to say, which no great mind could otherwise have either
produced or enjoyed. The extreme finish given by the Pre-
Raphaelites is rendered noble chiefly by their love of color.
§ xxvui. So then, whatever may be the means, or whatever
the more immediate end of any kind of art, all of it that is
good agrees in this, that it is the expression of one soul talking
to another, and is precious according to the greatness of the
soul that utters it. And consider what mighty consequences
follow from our acceptance of this truth ! what a key we have
herein given us for the interpretation of the art of all time !
For, as long as we held art to consist in any high manual skill,
or successful imitation of natural objects, or any scientific and
legalized manner of performance whatever, it was necessary for
us to limit our admiration to narrow periods and to few men.
According to our own knowledge and sympathies, the period
chosen might be different, and our rest might be in Greek stat-
ues, or Dutch landscapes, or Italian Madonnas ; but, whatever
our choice, we were therein captive, barred from all reverence
but of our favorite masters, and habitually using the language of
contempt towards the whole of the human race to whom it had
not pleased Heaven to reveal the arcana of the particular crafts-
manship we admired, and who, it might be, had lived their
term of seventy years upon the earth, and fitted themselves
therein for the eternal world, without any clear understanding,
sometimes even with an insolent disregard, of the laws of per-
spective and chiaroscuro.
But let us once comprehend the holier nature of the art of
man, and begin to look for the meaning of the spirit, however
syllabled, and the scene is changed ; and we are changed also.
IV. *
IV. CONCLUSION. 189
Those small and dexterous creatures whom once we wor-
shipped, those fur-capped divinities with sceptres of camel's
hair, peering and poring in their one-windowed chambers over
the minute preciousness of the labored canvas ; how are they
swept away and crushed into unnoticeable darkness ! And in
their stead, as the walls of the dismal rooms that enclosed them,
and us, are struck by the four winds of Heaven, and rent away,
and as the world opens to our sight, lo ! far back into all the
depths of time, and forth from all the fields that have been
sown with human life, how the harvest of the dragon's teeth
is springing ! how the companies of the gods are ascending out
of the earth ! The dark stones that have so long been the
sepulchres of the thoughts of nations, and the forgotten ruins
wherein their faith lay enamelled, give up the dead that were
in them ; and beneath the Egyptian ranks of sultry and silent
rock, and amidst the dim golden lights of the Byzantine dome,
and out of the confused and cold shadows of the Northern
cloister, behold, the multitudinous souls come forth with sing-
ing, gazing on us with the soft eyes of newly comprehended
sympathy, and stretching their white arms to us across the
grave, in the solemn gladness of everlasting brotherhood. .
§ xxix. The other danger to which, it was above said, we
were primarily exposed under our present circumstances of
life, is the pursuit of vain pleasure, that is to say, false pleasure ;
delight, which is not indeed delight ; as knowledge vainly ac-
cumulated, is not indeed knowledge. And this we are exposed
to chiefly in the fact of our ceasing to be children. For the
child does not seek false pleasure ; its pleasures are true, simple,
and instinctive : but the youth is apt to abandon his early and
true delight for vanities, — seeking to be like men, and sacrific-
ing his natural and pure .enjoyments to his pride. In like
manner, it seems to me that modern civilization sacrifices much
pure and true pleasure to various forms of ostentation from
which it can receive no fruit. Consider, for a moment, what
kind of pleasures are open to human nature, undiseased. Pass-
ing by the consideration of the pleasures of the higher affec-
tions, which lie at the root of everything, and considering the
190 THIKD PERIOD.
definite and practical pleasures of daily life, there is, first, the
pleasure of doing good ; the greatest of all, only apt to be de-
spised from not being often enough tasted : and then, I know
not in what order to put them, nor does it matter, — the pleas-
ure of gaining knowledge ; the pleasure of the excitement of
imagination and emotion (or poetry and passion) ; and, lastly,
the gratification of the senses, first of the eye, then of the ear,
and then of the others in their order.
§ xxx. All these we are apt to make subservient to the
desire of praise ; nor unwisely, when the praise sought is God's
and the conscience's: but if the sacrifice is made for man's
admiration, and knowledge is only sought for praise, passion
repressed or affected for praise, and the arts practised for praise,
we are feeding on the bitterest apples of Sodom, suffering
always ten mortifications for one delight. And it seems to me,
that in the modern civilized world we make such sacrifice
doubly : first, by laboring for merely ambitious purposes ; and
secondly, which is the main point in question, by being ashamed
of simple pleasures, more especially of the pleasure in sweet
color and form, a pleasure evidently so necessary to man's per-
fectness and virtue, that the beauty of color and form has been
given lavishly throughout the whole of creation, so that it may
become the food of all, and with such intricacy and subtlety
that it may deeply employ the thoughts of all. If we refuse
to accept the natural delight which the Deity has thus pro-
vided for us, we must either become ascetics, or we must seek
for some base and guilty pleasures to replace those of Paradise,
which we have denied ourselves.
Some years ago, in passing through some of the cells of the
Grand Chartreuse, noticing that the window of each apartment
looked across the little garden of its inhabitant to the wall of
the cell opposite, and commanded no other view, I asked the
monk beside me, why the window was not rather made on the
side of the cell whence it would open to the solemn fields of
the Alpine valley. " "We do not come here," he replied, " to
look at the mountains."
§ xxxi. The same answer is given, practically, by the men
IV. CONCLUSION. 191
of this century, to every such question ; only the walls with
which they enclose themselves are those of pride, not of prayer.
But in the middle ages it was otherwise. Not, indeed, in
landscape itself, but in the art which can take the place of it,
in the noble color and form with which they illumined, and
into which they wrought, every object around them that was
in any wise subjected to their power, they obeyed the laws of
their inner nature, and found its proper food. The splendor
and fantasy even of dress, which in these days we pretend to
despise, or in which, if we even indulge, it is only for the sake
of vanity, and therefore to our infinite harm, were in those
early days studied for love of their true beauty and honorable-
ness, and became one of the main helps to dignity of character,
and courtesy of bearing. Look back to what we have been
told of the dress of the early Venetians, that it was so invented
" that in clothing themselves with it, they might clothe them
selves also with modesty and honor ;" * consider what noble-
ness of expression there is in the dress of any of the portrait
figures of the great times, nay, what perfect beauty, and more
than beauty, there is in the folding of the robe round the im-
agined form even of the saint or of the angel ; and then consider
whether the grace of vesture be indeed a thing to be despised.
We cannot despise it if we would ; and in all our highest poetry
and happiest thought we cling to the magnificence which in
daily life we disregard. The essence of modern romance is
simply the return of the heart and fancy to the things in which
they naturally take pleasure ; and half the influence of the best
romances, of Ivanhoe, or Marmion, or the Crusaders, or the
Lady of the Lake, is completely dependent upon the accessaries
of armor and costume. Nay, more than this, deprive the Iliad
itself of its costume, and consider how much of its power would
be lost. And that delight and reverence which we feel in, and
by means of, the mere imagination of these accessaries, the
middle ages had in the vision of them ; the nobleness of dress
exercising, as I have said, a perpetual influence upon character,
* Vol. II. Appendix 7.
192 THIRD PERIOD.
tending in a thousand ways to increase dignity and self-respect,
and together with grace of gesture, to induce serenity of thought.
§ xxxii. I do not mean merely in its magnificence ; the
most splendid time was not the best time. It was still in the
thirteenth century, — when, as we have seen, simplicity and gor-
geousness were justly mingled, and the " leathern girdle and
clasp of bone" were worn, as well as the embroidered man-
tle,— that the manner of dress seems to have been noblest.
The chain mail of the knight, flowing and falling over his
form in lapping waves of gloomy strength, was worn under full
robes of one color in the ground, his crest quartered on them,
and their borders enriched with subtle illumination. The
women wore first a dress close to the form in like manner, and
then long and flowing robes, veiling them up to the neck, and
delicately embroidered around the hem, the sleeves, and the
girdle. The use of plate armor gradually introduced more
fantastic types ; the nobleness of the form was lost beneath the
steel ; the gradually increasing luxury and vanity of the age
strove for continual excitement in more quaint and extravagant
devices ; and in the fifteenth century, dress reached its point of
utmost splendor and fancy, being in many cases still exquisitely
graceful, but now, in its morbid magnificence, devoid of all
wholesome influence on manners. From this point, like archi-
tecture, it was rapidly degraded ; and sank through the buff
coat, and lace collar, and jack-boot, to the bag-wig, tailed coat,
and high-heeled shoes ; and so to what it is now.
§ XXXIH. Precisely analogous to this destruction of beauty
in dress, has been that of beauty in architecture ; its color, and
grace, and fancy, being gradually sacrificed to the base forms of
the Renaissance, exactly as. the splendor of chivalry has faded
into the paltriness of fashion. And observe the form in which
the necessary reaction has taken place ; necessary, for it was
not possible that one of the strongest instincts of the human
race could be deprived altogether of its natural food. Exactly
in the degree that the architect withdrew from his buildings
the sources of delight which in early days they had so richly
possessed, demanding, in accordance with the new principles of
IV. COHCLUSIOtf. 193
taste, the banishment of all happy color and healthy invention,
in that degree the minds of men began to turn to landscape as
their only resource. The picturesque school of art rose up to
address those capacities of enjoyment for which, in sculpture,
architecture, or the higher walks of painting, there was employ-
ment no more; and the shadows of Rembrandt, and savageness
of Salvator, arrested the admiration which was no longer per-
mitted to be rendered to the gloom or the grotesqueness of
the Gothic aisle. And thus the English school of landscape,
culminating in Turner, is in reality nothing else than a healthy
effort to fill the void which the destruction of Gothic architec-
ture has left.
§ xxxrv. But the void cannot thus be completely filled ; no,
nor filled in any considerable degree. The art of landscape-
painting will never become thoroughly interesting or sufficing
to the minds of men engaged in active life, or concerned prin-
cipally with .practical subjects. The sentiment and imagina-
tion necessary to enter fully into the romantic forms of art are
chiefly the characteristics of youth ; so that nearly all men as
they advance in years, and some even from their childhood
upwards, must be appealed to, if at all, by a direct and sub-
stantial art, brought before their daily observation and con-
nected with their daily interests. No form of art answers
these conditions so well as architecture, which, as it can receive
help from every character of mind in the workman, can address
every character of mind in the spectator ; forcing itself into
notice even in his most languid moments, and possessing this
chief and peculiar advantage, that it is the property of all men.
Pictures and statues may be jealously withdrawn by their pos-
sessors from the public gaze, and to a certain degree their
•safety requires them to be so withdrawn; but the outsides of
our houses belong not so much to us as to the passer-by, and
whatever cost, and pains we bestow upon them, though too
often arising out of ostentation, have at least the effect of be-
nevolence.
§ xxxv. If, then, considering these things, any of my readers
should determine, according to their means, to set themselves to
194 THIRD PERIOD.
the revival of a healthy school of architecture in England, and
wish to know in few words how this may be done, the answer
is clear and simple. First, let us cast out utterly whatever is
connected with the Greek, Roman, or Renaissance architecture,
in principle or in form. We have seen above, that the whole
mass of the architecture, founded on Greek and Roman models,
which we have been in the habit of building for the last three
centuries, is utterly devoid of all life, virtue, honorableness, or
power of doing good. It is base, unnatural, unfruitful, unen-
joyable, and impious. Pagan in its origin, proud and unholy in
its revival, paralyzed in its old age, yet making prey in its
dotage of all the good and living things that were springing
around it in their youth, as the dying and desperate king, who
had long fenced himself so strongly with the towers of it, is
said to have filled his failing veins with the blood of children ;*
an architecture invented, as it seems, to make plagiarists of its
architects, slaves of its workmen, and Sybarites of its inhabitants ;
an architecture in which intellect is idle, invention impossible,
but in which all luxury is gratified, and all insolence forti-
fied ; — the first thing we have to do is to cast it out, and shake
the dust of it from our feet for ever. "Whatever has any con-
nexion with the five orders, or with any one of the orders, — what-
ever is Doric, or Ionic, or Tuscan, or Corinthian, or Composite,
or in any way Grecized or Romanized ; whatever betrays the
smallest respect for Yitruvian laws, or conformity with Palla-
dian work, — that we are to endure no more. To cleanse our-
selves of these "cast clouts and rotten rags" is the first thing
to be done in the court of our prison.
§ xxxvi. Then, to turn our prison into a palace is an easy
thing. We have seen above, that exactly in* the degree in
* Louis the Eleventh. " In the month of March, 1481. Louis was seized
with a fit of apoplexy at St. Benoit-du-lac-mort, near Chinon. He remained
speechless and bereft of reason three days; and then but very imperfectly
restored, he languished in a miserable state. . . To cure him," says a con-
temporary historian, "wonderful and terrible medicines were compounded.
It was reported among the people that his physicians opened the veins of
little children, -and made him drink their blood, to correct the poorness of
his own. " — Bussey's History of France. London, 1850.
IV. CONCLUSION-. 195
which Greek and Roman architecture is lifeless, unprofitable,
and unchristian, in that same degree our own ancient Gothic
is animated, serviceable, and faithful. We have seen that it is
flexible to all duty, enduring to all time, instructive to all
hearts, honorable and holy in all offices. It is capable alike of
all lowliness and all dignity, fit alike for cottage porch or cas-
tle gateway ; in domestic service familiar, in religious, sublime ;
simple, and playful, so that childhood may read it, yet clothed
with a power that can awe the mightiest, and exalt the loftiest
of human spirits : an architecture that kindles every faculty
in its workman, and addresses every emotion in its beholder ;
which, with every stone that is laid on its solemn walls, raises
some human heart a step nearer heaven, and which from its
birth has been incorporated with the existence, and in all its
form is symbolical of the faith, of Christianity. In this archi-
tecture let us henceforward build, alike the church, the palace,
and the cottage ; but chiefly let us use it for our civil and
domestic buildings. These once ennobled, our ecclesiastical
work will be exalted together with them : but churches are
not the proper scenes for experiments in untried architecture,
nor for exhibitions of unaccustomed beauty. It is certain that
we must often fail before we can again build a natural and
noble Gothic : let not our temples be the scenes of our failures.
It is certain that we must offend many deep-rooted prejudices,
before ancient Christian architecture * can be again received
by all of us : let not religion be the first source of such offence.
"We shall meet with difficulties in applying Gothic architecture
to churches, which would in no wise affect the designs of civil
buildings, for the most beautiful forms of Gothic chapels are
not those which are best fitted for Protestant worship. As it
was noticed in the second volume, when speaking of the
Cathedral of Torcello it seems not unlikely, that as we study
either the science of sound, or the practice of the early
* Observe, I call Gothic "Christian" architecture, not "ecclesiastical."
There is a wide difference. I believe it is the only architecture which Chris-
tian men should build, but not at all an architecture necessarily connected
with the services of their church.
196 THIRD PERIOD.
Christians, we may see reason to place the pulpit generally at
the extremity of the apse or chancel ; an arrangement entirely
destructive of the beauty of a Gothic church, as seen in exist-
ing examples, and requiring modifications of its design in other
parts with which we should be unwise at present to embarrass
ourselves; besides, that the effort to introduce the style
exclusively for ecclesiastical purposes, excites against it the
strong prejudices of many persons who might otherwise be
easily enlisted among its most ardent advocates. I am quite
sure, for instance, that if such noble architecture as has been
employed for the interior of the church just built in Margaret
Street* had been seen in a civil building, it would have
decided the question with many men at once ; whereas, at
present, it will be looked upon with fear and suspicion, as the
expression of the ecclesiastical principles of a particular party.
But, whether thus regarded or not, this church assuredly
decides one question conclusively, that of our present capa-
bility of Gothic design. It is the first piece of architecture I
have seen, built in modern days, which is free from all signs
of timidity or incapacity. In general proportion of parts, in
refinement and piquancy of mouldings, above all, in force,
vitality, and grace of floral ornament, worked in a broad and
masculine manner, it challenges fearless comparison with the
noblest work of any time. Having done this, we may do^any-
thing ; there need be no limits to our hope or our confidence ;
and I believe it to be possible for us, not only to equal, but
far to surpass, in some respects, any Gothic yet seen in
Northern countries. In the introduction of figure-sculpture,
we must, indeed, for the present, remain utterly inferior, for
we have no figures to study from. No architectural sculpture
* Mr. Hope's Church, in Margaret Street, Portland Place. I do not alto-
gether like the arrangements of color in the brickwork ; but these will
hardly attract the eye, where so much has been already done with precious
and beautiful marble, and is yet to be done in fresco. Much will depend,
however, upon the coloring of this latter portion. I wish that either
Holman Hunt or Millais could be prevailed upon to do at least some of these
smaller frescoes.
iv. COXCLUSIOK. 197
was ever good for anything which did not represent the dress
and persons of the people living at the time ; and our modern
dress will not form decorations for spandrils and niches. But
in floral sculpture we may go far beyond what has yet been
done, as well as in refinement of inlaid work and general exe-
cution. For, although the glory of Gothic architecture is to
receive the rudest work, it refuses not the best ; and, when
once we have been content to admit the handling of the sim-
plest workman, we shall soon be rewarded by finding many
of our simple workmen become cunning ones : and, with the
help of modern wealth and science, we may do things like
Giotto's campanile, instead of like our own rude cathedrals;
but better than Giotto's campanile, insomuch as we may
adopt the pure and perfect forms of the Northern Gothic,
and work them out with the Italian refinement. It is hardly
possible at present to imagine what may be the splendor of
buildings designed in the forms of English and French thir-
teenth century surface Gothic, and wrought out with the
refinement of Italian art in the details, and with a deliberate
resolution, since we cannot have figure sculpture, to display
in them the beauty of every flower and herb of the English
fields, each by each ; doing as much for every tree that roots
itself in our rocks, and every blossom that drinks our summer
rains, as our ancestors did for the oak, the ivy, and the rose.
Let this be the object of our ambition, and let us begin
to approach it, not ambitiously, but in all humility, accepting
help from the feeblest hands; and the London of the nine-
teenth century may yet become as Yenice without her despo-
tism, and as Florence without her dispeace.
APPENDIX.
1. ARCHITECT OF THE DUCAL PALACE.
POPULAR tradition and a large number of the chroniclers
ascribe the building of the Ducal Palace to that Filippo Calen-
dario who suffered death for his share in the conspiracy of
Faliero. He was certainly one of the leading architects of the
time, and had for several years the superintendence of the works
of the Palace ; but it appears, from the documents collected by
the Abbe Cadorin, that the first designer of the Palace, the man
to whom we owe the adaptation of the Frari traceries to civil
architecture, was Pietro Baseggio, who is spoken of expressly as
"formerly the Chief Master of our New Palace,"* in the decree
of 1361, quoted by Cadorin, and who, at his death, left Calen-
dario his executor. Other documents collected by Zanotto, in
his work on " Venezia e le sue Lagune," show that Calendario
was for a long time at sea, under the commands of the Signory,
returning to Venice only three or four years before his death;
and that therefore the entire management of the works of the
Palace, in the most important period, must have been entrusted
to Baseggio.
It is quite impossible, however, in the present state of the
Palace, to distinguish one architect's work from another in the
older parts; and I have not in the text embarrassed the reader
by any attempt at close definition of epochs before the great
junction of the Piazzetta Faqade with the older palace in the
fifteenth century. Here, however, it is necessary that I should
briefly state the observations I was able to make on the relative
dates of the earlier portions.
* " Olim magistri prothi palatii nostri novi." — Cadarin, p. 127.
200 APPENDIX, 1.
In the description of the Fig-tree angle, given in the eighth
chapter of Vol. II., I said that it seemed to me somewhat earlier
than that of the Vine, and the reader might be surprised at the
apparent opposition of this statement to my supposition that the
Palace was built gradually round from the Eio Facade to the
Piazzetta. But in the two great open arcades there is no suc-
cession of work traceable ; from the Vine angle to the junction
with the fifteenth century work, above and below, all seems
nearly of the same date, the only question being of the acciden-
tal precedence of workmanship of one capital or another; and I
think, from its style, that the Fig-tree angle must have been
first 'completed. But in the upper stories of the Palace there
are enormous differences of style. On the Eio Faqade, in the
upper story, are several series of massive windows of the third
order, corresponding exactly in mouldings jmd manner of work-
manship to those of the chapter-house of the Frari, and conse-
quently carrying us back to a very early date in the fourteenth
century : several of the capitals of these Avindows, and two
richly sculptured string-courses in the wall below, are of Byzan-
tine workmanship, and in all probability fragments of the Ziani
Palace. The traceried windows on the Eio Fac/ade, and the two
eastern windows on the Sea Facade, are all of the finest early
fourteenth century work, masculine and noble in their capitals
and bases to the highest degree, and evidently contemporary
with the very earliest portions of the lower arcades. But the
moment we come to the windows of the Great Council Chamber
the style is debased. The mouldings are the same, but they are
coarsely worked, and the heads set amidst the leafage of the
capitals quite valueless and vile.
I have not the least doubt that these window-jambs and
traceries were restored after the great fire ;* and various other
restorations have taken place since, beginning with the removal
of the traceries from all the windows except the northern one
of the Sala del Scrutinio, behind the Porta della Carta, where
they are still left. I made out four periods of restoration among
* A print, dated 1585, barbarously inaccurate, as all prints were at that
time, but still in some respects to be depended upon, represents all the win-
dows on the fa£ade full of traceries; and the circles above, between them,
occupied by quatref oils.
Al'I'KNWX, 1. 201
these windows, each baser than the preceding. It is not worth
troubling the reader about them, but the traveller who is inter-
ested in the subject may compare two of them in the same win-
dow ; the one nearer the sea of the two belonging to the little
room at the top of the Palace on the Piazzetta Faqade, between
the Sala del Gran Consiglio and that of the Scrutinio. The sea-
ward jamb of that window is of the first, and the opposite jamb
of the second, period of these restorations. These are all the
points of separation in date which I could discover by internal
evidence. But much more might be made out by any Venetian
antiquary whose time permitted him thoroughly to examine any
existing documents which allude to or describe the parts of the
Palace spoken of in the important decrees of 1340, 1342, and
1344 ; for the first of these decrees speaks of certain "columns
looking towards the Canal " * or sea, as then existing, and I
presume these columns to have been part of the Ziani Palace,
corresponding to the part of that palace on the Piazzetta where
were the " red columns" between which Calendario was executed;
and a great deal more might be determined by any one who
would thoroughly unravel the obscure language of those decrees.
Meantime, in order to complete the evidence respecting the
main dates stated in the text, I have collected here such notices
of the building of the Ducal Palace as appeared to me of
most importance in the various chronicles I examined. I could
not give them all in the text, as they repeat each other, and
would have been tedious; but they will be interesting to the
antiquary, and it is to be especially noted in all of them how the
Palazzo Vecchio is invariably distinguished, either directly or by
implication, from the Palazzo Nuovo. I shall first translate the
piece of the. Zancarol Chronicle given by Cadorin, which has
chiefly misled the Venetian antiquaries. I wish I could put the
rich old Italian into old English, but must be content to lose its
raciness, as it is necessary that the reader should be fully ac-
quainted with its facts.
" It was decreed that none should dare to propose to the
Signory of Venice to ruin the old palace and rebuild it new and
more richly, and there was a penalty of one thousand ducats
* "Lata tanto, quantum est ambulum existens super columnis versus
canale respicientibus."
202 APPENDIX, 1.
against any one who should break it. Then the Doge, wishing
to set forward the public good, said to the Signory, . . .
that they ought to rebuild the facades of the old palace, and
that it ought to be restored, to do honor to the nation: and so
soon as he had done speaking, the Avogadori demanded the
penalty from the Doge, for having disobeyed the law ; and the
Doge with ready mind paid it, remaining in his opinion that
the said fabric ought to be built. And so, in the year 1422, on
the 20th day of September, it was passed in the Council of the
Pregadi that the said new palace should be begun, and the ex-
pense should be borne by the Signori del Sal; and so, on the
24th day of March, 1424, it was begun to throw down the old
palace, and to build it anew." — Cadorin, p. 129.
The day of the month, and the council in which the decree
was passed, are erroneously given by this Chronicle. Cadorin
has printed the words of the decree itself, which passed in the
Great Council on the 27th September : and these words are,
fortunately, much to our present purpose. For as more than
one faqade is spoken of in the above extract, the Marchese Sel-
vatico was induced to believe that both the front to the sea and
that to the Piazzetta had been destroyed ; whereas, the " faqades"
spoken of are evidently those of the Ziani Palace. For the
words of the decree (which are much more trustworthy than
those of the Chronicle, even if there were any inconsistency be-
tween them) run thus : " Palatium nostrum fabricetur et fiat in
forma decora et convenienti, quod respondeat solemnissimo prin-
cipio palatii nostri novi." Thus the new council chamber and
fa?ade to the sea are called the " most venerable beginning of
our New Palace ;" and the rest was ordered to be designed in
accordance with these, as was actually the case as far as the
Porta della Carta. But the Eenaissance architects who thence-
forward proceeded with J,he fabric, broke through the design,
and built everything else according to their own humors.
The question may be considered as set at rest by these words
of the decree, even without any internal or any farther docu-
mentary evidence. But rather for the sake of impressing the
facts thoroughly on the reader's mind, than of any. additional
proof, I shall quote a few more of the best accredited Chron-
jcles.
AI'PENDIX, 1. 20o
The passage given by Bettio, from the Sivos Chronicle, is a
very important parallel with that from the Zancarol above :
"Essendo molto vecchio, e quasi rovinoso el Palazzo sopra la
piazza, fo deliberato di far quella parte tutta da novo, et contin-
uarla com' e quella della Sala grande, et cosi il Lunedi 27 Marzo
1424 fu dato principio a ruinare detto Palazzo vecchio dalla
parte, ch' e verso panateria cioe della Giustizia, ch' e nelli occhi
di sopra le colonne fino alia Chiesa et fo fatto anco la porta
grande, com' e al presente, con la sala che si addimanda la
Libraria."*
We have here all the facts told us in so many words : the
" old palace" is definitely stated to have been " on the piazza,"
and it is to be rebuilt " like the part of the great saloon." The
very point from which the newer buildings commenced is told
us ; but here the chronicler has carried his attempt at accuracy
too far. The point of junction is, as stated above, at the third
pillar beyond the medallion of Venice ; and I am much at a loss
to understand what could have been the disposition of these
three pillars where they joined the Ziani Palace, and how they
were connected with the arcade of the inner cortile. But with
these difficulties, as they do not bear on the immediate question,
it is of no use to trouble the reader.
The next passage I shall give is from a Chronicle in the Mar-
cian Library, bearing title, " Supposta di Zancaruol ;" but in
which I could not find the passage given by Cadorin from, I be-
lieve, a manuscript of this Chronicle at Vienna. There occurs
instead of it the following thus headed : —
" Come la parte nova del Palazzo fuo he'dificata novamente.
" El Palazzo novo de Venesia quella parte che xe verso la
Chiesia de S. Marcho fuo prexo chel se fesse del 1422 e fosse
pagado la spexa per li officiali del sal. E fuo fatto per sovra-
stante G. Nicolo Barberigo cum provision de ducati X doro al
mexe e fuo fabricado e fatto nobelissimo. Come fin ancho di el
sta e fuo grande honor a la Signoria de Venesia e a la sua Citta."
This entry, which itself bears no date, but comes between
others dated 22d July and 27th December, is interesting, be-
cause it shows the first transition of the idea of newness, from
;
* Bettio, p. 28.
204 APPENDIX, 1.
the Grand Council Chamber to the part built under Foscari.
For when Mocenigo's wishes had been fulfilled, and the old
palace of Ziani had been destroyed, and another built in its
stead, the Great Council Chamber, which was "the new palace"
compared with Ziani's, became " the old palace" compared with
Foscari's ; and thus we have, in the body of the above extract,
the whole building called " the new palace of Venice ;" but in
the heading of it, we have " the new part of the palace" applied
to the part built by Foscari, in contradistinction to the Council
Chamber.
The next entry I give is important, because the writing of
the MS. in which it occurs, No. 53 in the Correr Museum,
shows it to be probably not later than the end of the fifteenth
century :
"El palazo nuovo de Venixia zoe quella parte che se sora la
piazza verso la giesia di Miss. San Marcho del 1422 fo princi-
piado, el qual fo fato e finite molto belo, chome al presente se
vede nobilissimo, et a la fabricha de quello fo deputado Miss.
Nicolo Barberigo, soprastante con ducati dieci doro al mexe."
We have here the part built by Foscari distinctly called the
Palazzo Nuovo, as opposed to the Great Council Chamber,
which had now completely taken the position of the Palazzo
Vecchio, and is actually so called by Sansovino. In the copy of
the Chronicle of Paolo Morosini, and in the MSS. numbered re-
spectively 57, 59, 74, and 76 in the Correr Museum, the pas-
sage above given from No. 53 is variously repeated with slight
modifications and curtailments ; the entry in the Morosini
Chronicle being headed, "Come fu principiato il palazo che
guarda sopra la piaza grande di S. Marco," and proceeding in
the words, " El Palazo Nuovo di Venetia, cioe quella parte che
e sopra la piaza," &c., the writers being cautious, in all these in-
stances, to limit their statement to the part facing the Piazza,
that no reader might suppose the Council Chamber to have been
built or begun at the same time ; though, as Jong as to the end
of the sixteenth century, we find the Council Chamber still in-
cluded in the expression "Palazzo Nuovo." Thus, in the MS.
No. 75 in the Correr Museum, which is about that date, we
have "Del 1422, a di 20 Settembre fu preso nel consegio grando
de dover compir el Palazo Novo, e doveseu fare la spessa li
APPENDIX, 2. 205
officialli del Sal (61. M. 2. B.)." And, so long as this is the
oase, the " Palazzo Vecchio" always means the Ziani Palace.
Thus, in the next page of this same MS. we have "adi 27
Marzo (1424 by context) fo principia a butar zosso, el Palazzo
Vecchio per refarlo da novo, e poi se he" (and so it is done) ;
and in the MS. No. 81, ' ' Del 1424, fo gittado zoso el Palazzo
Veccliio per refarlo de nuovo, a di 27 Marzo." But in the
time of Sansovmo the Ziani Palace was quite forgotten; the
Council Chamber was then the old palace, and Foscari's part
was the new. His account of the " Palazzo Publico" will now
be perfectly intelligible; but, as the work itself is easily accessi-
•ble, I shall not burden the reader with any farther extracts,
only noticing that the chequering of the fagade with red and
white marbles, which he ascribes to Foscari, may or may not be
of so late a date, as there is nothing in the style of the work
which can be produced as evidence.
2. THEOLOGY OF SPENSER.
The following analysis of the first books of the "Faerie
Queen," may be interesting to readers who have been in the
habit of reading the noble poem too hastily to connect its parts
completely together ; and may perhaps induce them to more
careful study of the rest of the poem.
The Redcrosse Knight is Holiness, — the "Pietas" of St.
Mark's, the " Devotio" of Orcagna, — meaning, I think, in gen-
eral, Reverence and Godly Fear.
This Virtue, in the opening of the book, has Truth (or Una)
at its side, but presently enters the Wandering Wood, and en-
counters the serpent Error ; that is to say, Error in her univer-
sal form, the first enemy of Reverence and Holiness ; and more
especially Error as founded on learning; for when Holiness
strangles her,
"Her vomit full ofbookes and papers was,
With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke."
Having vanquished this first open and palpable form of
Error, as Reverence and Religion must always vanquish it, the
Knight encounters Hypocrisy, or Archimagus : Holiness cannot
206 APPENDIX, 2.
detect Hypocrisy, but believes him, and goes home with him;
whereupon Hypocrisy succeeds in separating Holiness from
Truth ; and the Knight (Holiness) and Lady (Truth) go forth
separately from the house of Archimagus.
Now observe : the moment Godly Fear, or Holiness, is sep-
arated from Truth, he meets Infidelity, or the Knight Sans
Foy; Infidelity having Falsehood, or Dues a, riding behind
him. The instant the Kedcrosse Knight is aware of the attack
of Infidelity, he
" Gan fairly couch his speare, and towards ride."
He vanquishes and slays Infidelity ; but is deceived by his '
companion,* Falsehood, and takes her for his lady : thus show-
ing the condition of Eeligion, when, after being attacked by
Doubt, and remaining victorious, it is nevertheless seduced, by
any form of Falsehood, to pay reverence where it ought not.
This, then, is the first fortune of Godly Fear separated from
Truth. The poet then returns to Truth, separated from
Godly Fear. She is immediately attended by a lion, or Vio-
lence, which makes her dreaded wherever she comes ; and
when she enters the mart of Superstition, this Lion tears
Kirkrapine in pieces: showing how Truth, separated from God-
liness, does indeed put an end to the abuses of Superstition,
but does so violently and desperately. She then meets again
with Hypocrisy, whom she mistakes for her own lord, or Godly
Fear, and travels a little way under his guardianship (Hypocrisy
thus not unfrequently appearing to defend the Truth), until
they are both met by Lawlessness, or the Knight Sans Loy,
whom Hypocrisy cannot resist. Lawlessness overthrows Hypoc-
risy, and seizes upon Truth, first slaying her lion attendant :
showing that the first aim of licence is to destroy the force and
authority of Truth. Sans Loy then takes Truth captive, and
bears her away. Now this Lawlessness is the " unrighteous-
ness," or "adikia," of St. Paul; and his bearing Truth away
captive, is a type of those " who hold the truth in unrighteous-
ness,"— that is to say, generally, of men who, knowing what is
true, make the truth give way to their own purposes, or use it
only to forward them, as is the case with so many of the popu-
lar leaders of the present day. Una is then delivered from Sans
APPENDIX, 2. 20?
Loy by the satyrs, to show that Nature, in the end, must work
out the deliverance of the truth, although, where it has been
captive to Lawlessness, that deliverance can only be obtained
through Savageness, and a return to barbarism. Una is then
-taken from among the satyrs by Satyrane, the son of a satyr and
a "lady myld, fair Thyamis," (typifying the early steps of re-
newed civilization, and its rough and hardy character " nousled
up in life and manners wilde,") who, meeting again with Sans
Loy, enters instantly into rough and prolonged combat with
him : showing how the early organization of a hardy nation
must be wrought out through much discouragement from Law-
lessness. This contest the poet leaving for the time undecided,
returns to trace the adventures of the Redcrosse Knight, or
Godly Fear, who, having vanquished Infidelity, presently is led
by Falsehood to the house of Pride : thus showing how religion,
separated from truth, is first tempted by doubts of God, and
then by the pride of life. The description of this house of
Pride is one of the most elaborate and noble pieces in the poem;
and here we begin to get at the proposed system of Virtues and
Vices. For Pride, as queen, has six other vices yoked in her
chariot ; namely, first, Idleness, then Gluttony, Lust, Avarice,
Envy, and Anger, all driven on by "Sathan, with a smarting
whip in hand." From these lower vices and their company,
Godly Fear, though lodging in the house of Pride, holds aloof ;
but he is challenged, and has a hard battle to fight with Sans
Joy, the brother of Sans Foy : showing, that though he has
conquered Infidelity, and does not give himself up to the allure-
ments of Pride, he is yet exposed, so long as he dwells in her
house, to distress of mind and loss of his accustomed rejoicing
before God. He, however, having partly conquered Despond-
ency, or Sans Joy, Falsehood goes down to Hades, in order to
obtain drugs to maintain the power or life of Despondency ;
but, meantime, the Knight leaves the house of Pride : False-
hood pursues and overtakes him, and finds him by a fountain
side, of which the waters are
' ' Dull and slow,
And all that drinke thereof do faint and feeble grow."
Of which the meaning is, that Godly Fear, after passing through
the house of Pride, is exposed to drowsiness and feebleness of
208 APPENDIX, 2.
watch ; as, after Peter's boast, came Peter's sleeping, from
weakness of the flesh, and then, last of all, Peter's fall. And so
it follows : for the Redcrosse Knight, being overcome with faint-
ness by drinking of the fountain, is thereupon attacked by the
giant Orgoglio, overcome and thrown by him into a dungeon.-
This Orgoglio is Orgueil, or Carnal Pride; not the pride of life,
spiritual and subtle, but the common and vulgar pride in the
power of this world: and his throwing the Redcrosse Knight
into a dungeon, is a type of the captivity of true religion under
the temporal power of corrupt churches, more especially of the
Church of Rome ; and of its gradually wasting away in un-
known places, while carnal pride has the preeminence over all
things. That Spenser means, especially, the pride of the
Papacy, is shown by the 16th stanza of the book ; for there the
giant Orgoglio is said to have taken Duessa, or Falsehood; for
his " deare," and to have set upon her head a triple crown, and
endowed her with royal majesty, and made her to ride upon a
seven-headed beast.
In the meantime, the dwarf, the attendant of the Redcrosse
Knight, takes his arms, and finding Una tells her of the captiv-
ity of her lord. Una, in the midst of her mourning, meets
Prince Arthur, in whom, as Spenser himself tells us, is set forth
generally Magnificence; but who, as is shown by the choice of
the hero's name, is more especially the magnificence, or literally,
"great doing" of the kingdom of England. This power of
England, going forth with Truth, attacks Orgoglio, or the
Pride of Papacy, slays him ; strips Duessa, or Falsehood, naked;
and liberates the Redcrosse Knight. The magnificent and well-
known description of Despair follows, by whom the Redcrosse
Knight is hard bested, on account of his past errors and cap-
tivity, and is only saved by Truth, who, perceiving him to be
still feeble, brings him to^the house of Coelia, called, in the ar-
gument of the canto, Holiness, but properly, Heavenly Grace,
the mother of the Virtues. Her "three daughters, well up-
brought," are Faith, 'Hope, and Charity. Her porter is Hu-
mility ; because Humility opens the door of Heavenly' Grace.
Zeal and Reverence are her chamberlains, introducing the new
comers to her presence; her groom, or servant, is Obedience;
and her physician, Patience. Under the commands of Charit.y,
APPENDIX, 3. 209
the matron Mercy rules over her hospital, under whose care the
Knight is healed of his sickness ; and it is to be especially
noticed how much importance Spenser, though never ceasing to
chastise all hypocrisies and mere observances of form, attaches
to true and faithful penance in effecting this cure. Having his
strength restored to him, the Knight is trusted to the guidance
of Mercy, who, leading him forth by a narrow and thorny way,
first instructs him in the seven works of Mercy, and then leads
him to the hill of Heavenly Contemplation ; whence, having a
sight of the New Jerusalem, as Christian of the Delectable
Mountains, he goes forth to the final victory over Satan, the old
serpent, with which the book closes.
3. AUSTRIAN GOVERNMENT IN ITALY.
I cannot close these volumes without expressing my astonish-
ment and regret at the facility with which the English allow
themselves to be misled by any representations, however openly
groundless or ridiculous, proceeding from the Italian Liberal
party, respecting the present administration of the Austrian
Government. I do not choose here to enter into any political
discussion, or express any political opinion ; but it is due to
justice to state the simple facts which came under my notice
during my residence in Italy. I was living at Venice through
two entire winters, and in the habit of familiar association both
with Italians and Austrians, my own antiquarian vocations ren-
dering such association possible without exciting the distrust of
either party. During this whole period, I never once was able
to ascertain, from any liberal Italian, that he had a single
definite ground of complaint against the Government. There
was much general grumbling and vague discontent; but I never
was able to bring one of them to the point, or to discover what
it was that they wanted, or in what way they felt themselves
injured ; nor did I ever myself witness an instance of oppression
on the part of the Government, though several of much kind-
ness and consideration. The indignation of those of my own
countrymen and countrywomen whom I happened to see during
their sojourn in Venice was always vivid, but by no means large
in its grounds. English ladies on their first arrival invariably
210 APPENDIX, 3,
began the conversation with the same remark : " "What a dread-
ful thing it was to be ground under the iron heel of despotism!"
Upon closer inquiries it always appeared that being "ground
under the heel of despotism" was a poetical expression for being
asked for one's passport at San Juliano, and required to fetch it
from San Lorenzo, full a mile and a quarter distant. In like
manner, travellers, after two or three days' residence in the city,
used to return with pitiful lamentations over "the misery of the
Italian people." Upon inquiring what instances they had met
with of this misery, it invariably turned out that their gondo-
liers, after being paid three times their proper fare, had asked
for something to drink, and had attributed the fact of their
being thirsty to the Austrian Government. The misery of the
Italians consists in having three festa days a week, and doing
in their days of exertion about one fourth as much work as an
English laborer.
There is, indeed, much true distress occasioned by the meas-
ures which the Government is sometimes compelled to take in
order to repress sedition; but the blame of this lies with those
whose occupation is the excitement of sedition. So also there is
much grievous harm done to works of art by the occupation of
the country by so large an army ; but for the mode in which
that army is quartered, the Italian municipalities are answerable,
not the Austrians. Whenever I was shocked by rinding, as
above-mentioned at Milan, a cloister, or a palace, occupied by
soldiery, I always discovered, on investigation, that the place
had been given by the municipality ; and that, beyond requiring
that lodging for a certain number of men should be found in
such and such a quarter of the town, the Austrians had nothing
to do with the matter. This does not, however, make the mis-
chief less : and it is strange, if we think of it, to see Italy, with
all her precious works of, -art, made a continual battle-field; as
if no other place for settling their disputes could be found by
the European powers, than where every random shot may de-
stroy what a king's ransom cannot restore. * It is exactly as if
* In the bombardment of Venice in 1848, hardly a single palace escaped
without three or four balls through its roof : three came into the Scuola di
San Rocco, tearing their way through the pictures of Tintoret, of which
the ragged fragments were still haqging from the ceiling in 1851 ; and the
APPENDIX, 4. 231
the tumults in Paris could be settled no otherwise than by fight-
ing them out in the Gallery of the Louvre.
4. DATE OF THE PALACES OF THE BYZANTINE RENAISSANCE.
In the sixth article of the Appendix to the first volume, the
question of the date of the Casa Dario and Casa Trevisan was
deferred until I could obtain from my friend Mr. Rawdon
Brown, to whom the former palace once belonged, some more
distinct data respecting this subject than I possessed myself.
Speaking first of the Casa Dario, he says: "Fontana dates
it from about the year 1450, and considers it the earliest speci-
men of the architecture founded by Pietro Lombardo, and fol-
lowed by his sons, Tullio and Antonio. In a Sanuto autograph
miscellany, purchased by me long ago, and which I gave to St.
Mark's Library, are two letters from Giovanni Dario, dated 10th
and llth July, 1485, in the neighborhood of Adrianople ; where
the Turkish camp found itself, and Bajazet II. received presents
from the Soldan of Egypt, from the Schah of the Indies (query
Grand Mogul), and from the King of Hungary: of these mat-
ters, Dario's letters give many curious details. Then, in the
printed Malipiero Annals, page 136 (which err, I think, by a
year), the Secretary Dario's negotiations at the Porte are alluded
to; and in date of 1484 he is stated to have returned to Venice,
having quarrelled with the Venetian bailiff at Constantinople:
the annalist adds, that ( Giovanni Dario was a native of Candia,
and that the Republic was so well satisfied with him for having
concluded peace with Bajazet, that he received, as a gift from his
country, an estate at Noventa, in the Paduan territory, worth
1500 ducats, and 600 ducats in cash for the dower of one of his
daughters.' These largesses probably enabled him to build his
house about the year 1486, and are doubtless hinted at in the
inscription, which I restored A.D. 1837; it had no date, and
ran thus, URBIS . GENIO . JOANNES . DARIVS. In the Venetian
history of Paolo Morosini, page 594, it is also mentioned, that
Giovanni.Dario was, moreover, the Secretary who concluded the
shells had reached to within a hundred yards of St. Mark's Church itself,
at the time of the capitulation.
212 APPENDIX, 5.
peace between Mahomet, the conqueror of Constantinople, and
Venice, A. D. 1478 ; but, unless he build his house by proxy,
that date has nothing to do with it ; and in my mind, the fact
of the present, and the inscription, warrant one's dating it I486,
and not 1450.
"The Trevisan-Cappello House, in Canonica, was once the
property (A.D. 1578) of a Venetian dame, fond of cray-fish, ac-
cording to a letter of hers in the archives, whereby she thanks
one of her lovers for some which he had sent her from Treviso
to Florence, of which she was then Grand Duchess. Her name
has perhaps found its way into the English annuals. Did you
ever hear of Bianca Cappello ? She bought that house of the
Trevisana family, by whom Selva (in Cicognara) and Fontana
(following Selva) say it was ordered of the Lombardi, at the
commencement of the sixteenth century : but the inscription on
its facade, thus,
SOLI I! I! HONOR. ET
DEO GLORIA.
reminding one both of the Dario House, and of the words NON
NOBIS DOMINE inscribed on the faqade of the Loredano Ven-
dramin Palace at S. Marcuola (now the property of the Duchess
of Berri), of which Selva found proof in the Vendramin Archives
that it was commenced by Sante Lombardo, A.D. 1481, is in
favor of its being classed among the works of the fifteenth
century."
5. RENAISSANCE SIDE OF DUCAL PALACE.
In passing along the Rio del Palazzo the traveller ought
especially to observe the base of the Renaissance building, formed
by alternately depressed and raised pyramids, the depressed por-
tions being casts of the projecting ones, which are truncated on
the summits. The work cannot be called rustication, for it is
cut as sharply and delicately as a piece of ivory, but it thor-
oughly answers the end which rustication proposes, and misses :'
it gives the base of the building a look of crystalline hardness,
actually resembling, and that very closely, the appearance pre-
sented by the fracture of a piece of cap quartz; while yet the
APPENDIX, 6. 213
light and shade of its alternate recesses and projections are so
varied as to produce the utmost possible degree of delight to
the eye, attainable by a geometrical pattern so simple. Yet,
with all this high merit, it is not a base which could be brought
into general use. Its brilliancy and piquancy are here set off
with exquisite skill by its opposition to mouldings, in the upper
part of the building, of an almost effeminate delicacy, and its
complexity is rendered delightful by its contrast with the ruder
bases of the other buildings of the city ; but it would look
meagre if it were employed to sustain bolder masses above, and
would become wearisome if the eye were once thoroughly famil-
iarized with it by repetition.
6. CHARACTER OF THE DOGE MICHELE MOROSINI.
The following extracts from the letter of Count Charles
Morosini, above mentioned, appear to set the question at rest.
"It is our unhappy destiny that, during the glory of the
Venetian republic, no one took the care to leave us a faithful
and conscientious history : but I hardly know whether this mis-
fortune should be laid to the charge of the historians themselves,
or of those commentators who have destroyed their trustworthi-
ness by new accounts of things, invented by themselves. As for
the poor Morosini, we may perhaps save his honor by assembling
a conclave of our historians, in order to receive their united
sentence; for, in this case, he would have the absolute majority
on his side, nearly all the authors bearing testimony to his love
for his country and to the magnanimity of his heart. I must
tell you that the history of Daru is not looked upon with esteem
by well-informed men; and it is said that he seems to have no
other object in view than to obscure the glory of all actions. I
know not on what authority the English writer depends ; but
he has, perhaps, merely copied the statement of Daru
I have consulted an ancient and authentic MS. belonging to the
Venieri family, a MS. well known, and certainly better worthy
of confidence than Daru's history, and it says nothing of M.
Morosini but that he was elected Doge to the delight and joy of
all men. Neither do the Savina or Dolfin Chronicles say a word
of the shameful speculation; and our best informed men say
214 APPENDIX, 7,
that the reproach cast by some historians against the Doge per-
haps arose from a mistaken interpretation of the words pro-
nounced by him, and reported by Marin Sanuto, that ' the spec-
ulation would sooner or later have been advantageous to the
country.' But this single consideration is enough to induce us
to form a favorable conclusion respecting the honor of this man,
namely, that he was not elected Doge until after he had been
.entrusted with many honorable embassies to the Genoese and
Carrarese, as well as to the King of Hungary and Amadeus of
Savoy; and if in these embassies he had not shown himself a
true lover of his country, the republic not only would not again
have entrusted him with offices so honorable, but would never
have rewarded him with the dignity of Doge, therein to succeed
such a man as Andrea Contarini: and the war of Chioggia,
during which it is said that he tripled his fortune by specula-
tions, took place during the reign of Contarini, 1379, 1380,
while Morosini was absent on foreign embassies."
7. MODERN EDUCATION.
The following fragmentary notes on this subject have been
set down at different times. I have been accidentally prevented
from arranging them properly for publication, but there are one
or two truths in them which it is better to express insufficiently
than not at all.
By a large body of the people of England and of Europe a
man is called educated if he can write Latin verses and construe
a Greek chorus. By some few more enlightened persons it is
confessed that the construction of hexameters is not in itself an
important end of human existence; but they say, that the gen-
eral discipline which a pourse of classical reading gives to the
intellectual powers, is the final object of our scholastical institu-
tions.
But it seems to me, there is no small error even in this last
and more philosophical theory. I believe, that what it is most
honorable to know, it is also most profitable to learn; and that
the science which it is the highest power to possess, it is also the
best exercise to acquire.
APPENDIX, 7. 215
And if this be so, the question as to what should be the ma-
teriel of education, becomes singularly simplified. It might be
matter of dispute what processes have the greatest effect in de-
.veloping the intellect; but it can hardly be disputed what facts
it is most advisable that a man entering into life should accu-
rately know.
I believe, in brief, that he ought to know three things:
First. Where he is.
Secondly. Where he is going.
Thirdly. What he had best do, under those circumstances.
First. Where he is. — That is to say, what sort of a world he
has got into; how large it is ; what kind of creatures live in it,
and how; what it is made of, and what may be made of it.
Secondly. Where he is going. — That is to say, what chances
or reports there are of any other world besides this; what seems
to be the nature of that other world; and whether, for informa-
tion respecting it, he had better consult the Bible, Koran, or
Council of Trent.
Thirdly. What he had best do under those circumstances. —
That is to say, what kind of faculties he possesses; what are the
present state and wants of mankind; what is his place in
society; and what are the readiest means in his power of attain-
ing happiness and diffusing it. The man who knows these
things, and who has had his will so subdued in the learning
them, that he is ready to do what he knows he ought, I should
call educated; and the man who knows them not, — uneducated,
though he could talk all the tongues of Babel.
Our present European system of so-called education ignores,
or despises, not one, nor the other, but all the three, of these
great branches of human knowledge.
First : It despises Natural History. — Until within the last
year or two, the instruction in the physical sciences given at
Oxford consisted of a course of twelve or fourteen lectures on
the Elements of Mechanics or Pneumatics, and permission to
ride out to Shotover with the Professor of Geology. I do not
know the specialties of the system pursued in the academies of
the Continent; but their practical result is, that unless a man's
natural instincts urge him to the pursuit of the physical sciences
too strongly to be resisted, he enters into life utterly ignorant of
316
them. I cannot, within my present limits, even so much as
count the various directions in which this ignorance does evil.
But the main mischief of it is, that it leaves the greater number
of men without the natural food which God intended for their
intellects. For one man who is fitted for the study of words,
fifty are fitted for the study of things, and were intended to
have a perpetual, simple, and religious delight in watching the
processes, or admiring the creatures, of the natural universe.
Deprived of this source of pleasure, nothing is left to them but
ambition or dissipation ; and the vices of the upper classes of
Europe are, I believe, chiefly to be attributed to this single
cause.
Secondly : It despises Eeligion. — I do not say it despises
" Theology," that is to say, Talk about God. But it despises
"Religion;" that is to say, the "binding" or training to God's
service. There is much talk and much teaching in all our
academies, of which the effect is not to bind, but to loosen, the
elements of religious faith. Of the ten or twelve young men
who, at Oxford, were my especial friends, who sat with me
under the same lectures on Divinity, or were punished with me
for missing lecture by being sent to evening prayers,* four are
now zealous Romanists, — a large average out of twelve ; and
while thus our own universities profess to teach Protestantism,
and do not, the universities on the Continent profess to teach
Romanism, and do not, — sending forth only rebels and infidels.
During long residence on the Continent, I do not remember
meeting with above two or three young men, who either believed
in revelation, or had the grace to hesitate in the assertion of
their infidelity.
Whence, it seems to me, we may gather one of two things;
either that there is nothing in any European form of religion so
reasonable or ascertained} as that it can be taught securely to
our youth, or fastened in their minds by any rivets of proof
which they shall not be able to loosen the moment they begin to
think ; or else, that no means are taken to train them in such
demonstrable creeds.
It seems to me the duty of a rational nation to ascertain (and
* A Mohammedan youth is punished, I believe, for such misdemeanors,
by being kept away from prayers.
APPENDIX, 7. 23?
to be at some pains in the matter) which of these suppositions is
true; and, if indeed no proof can be given of any supernatural
fact, or Divine doctrine, stronger than a youth just out of his
teens can overthrow in the first stirrings of serious thought, to
confess this boldly ; to get rid of the expense of an Establish-
ment, and the hypocrisy of a Liturgy ; to exhibit its cathedrals
as curious memorials of a by-gone superstition, and, abandoning
all thoughts of the next world, to set itself to make the best it
can of this.
But if, on the other hand, there does exist any evidence by
which the probability of certain religious facts may be shown, as
clearly, even, as the probabilities of things not absolutely ascer-
tained in astronomical or geological science, let this evidence be
set before all our youth so distinctly, and the facts for which it
appears inculcated upon them so steadily, that although it may
be possible for the evil conduct of after life to efface, or for its
earnest and protracted meditation to modify, the impressions of
early years, it may not be possible for our young men, the in-
stant they emerge from their academies, to scatter themselves
like a flock of wild fowl risen out of a marsh, and drift away on
every irregular wind of heresy and apostasy.
Lastly : Our system of European education despises Politics.
— That is to say, the science of the relations and duties of men
to each other. One would imagine, indeed, by a glance at the
state of the world, that there was no such science. And, indeed,
it is one still in its infancy.
It implies, in its full sense, the knowledge of the operations
of the virtues and vices of men upon themselves and society;
the understanding of the ranks and offices of their intellectual
and bodily powers in their various adaptations to art, science,
and industry; the understanding of the proper offices of art,
science, and labor themselves, as well as of the foundations, of
jurisprudence, and broad principles of commerce ; all this being
coupled with practical knowledge of the present state and wants
of mankind.
What, it will be said, and is all this to be taught to school-
boys ? No ; but the first elements of it, all that are necessary
to be known by an individual in order to his acting wisely in
any station of life, might be taught, not only to every school-
218 APPENDIX, 7.
boy, but to every peasant. The impossibility of equality among
men ; the good which arises from their inequality ; the compen-
sating circumstances in different states and fortunes; the honor-
ableness of every man who is worthily filling his appointed place
in society, however humble; the proper relations of poor and
rich, governor and governed; the nature of wealth, and mode
of its circulation; the difference between productive and unpro-
ductive labor; the relation of the products of the mind and
hand ; the true value of works of the higher arts, and the possi-
ble amount of their production; the meaning of " Civilization,"
its advantages and dangers ; the meaning of the term "Refine-
ment ;" the possibilities of possessing refinement in a low station,
and of losing it in a high one; and, above all, the significance
of almost every act of a man's daily life, in its ultimate opera-
tion upon himself and others; — all this might be, and ought
to be, taught to every boy in the kingdom, so completely, that
it should be just as impossible to introduce an absurd or licen-
tious doctrine among our adult population, as a new version of
the multiplication table. Nor am I altogether without hope
that some day it may enter into the heads of the tutors of our
schools to try whether it is not as easy to make an Eton boy's
mind as sensitive to falseness in policy, as his ear is at present
to falseness in prosody.
I Icnow that this is much to hope. That English ministers
of religion should ever come to desire rather to make a youth
acquainted with the powers of nature and of God, than with
the powers of Greek particles ; that they should ever think it
more useful to show him how the great universe rolls upon its
course in heaven, than how the syllables are fitted in a tragic
metre ; that they should hold it more advisable for him to be
fixed in the principles of religion than in those of syntax ; or,
finally, that they should ever come to apprehend that a youth
likely to go straight out of college into parliament, might not
unadvisably know as much of the Peninsular as of the Pelopon-
nesian War, and be as well acquainted with the state of Modern
Italy as of old Etruria; — all this however unreasonably, I do
hope, and mean to work for. For though I have not yet aban-
doned all expectation of a better world than this, I believe this
in which we live is not so good as it might be, I know there are
APPENDIX, 7. 2J9
many people who suppose French revolutions, Italian insurrec-
tions, Caffre wars, and such other scenic effects of modern
policy, to be among the normal conditions of humanity. I
know there are many who think the atmosphere of rapine, re-
bellion, and misery which wraps the lower orders of Europe
more closely every day, is as natural a phenomenon as a hot
summer. But God forbid ! There are ills which flesh is heir
to, and troubles to which man is born; but the troubles which
he is born to are as sparks which fly upward, not as flames burn-
ing to the nethermost Hell. The Poor we must have with us
always, and sorrow is inseparable from any hour of life; but we
may make their poverty such as shall inherit the earth, and the
sorrow, such as shall be hallowed by the hand of the Comforter,
with everlasting comfort. We can, if we will but shake off this
lethargy and dreaming that is upon us, and take the pains to
think and act like men, we can, I say, make kingdoms to be
like well-governed households, in which, indeed, while no care
or kindness can prevent occasional heart-burnings, nor any fore-
sight or piety anticipate all the vicissitudes of fortune, or avert
every stroke of calamity, yet the unity of their affection and
fellowship remains unbroken, and their distress is neither em-
bittered by division, prolonged by imprudence, nor darkened by
dishonor.
*******
The great leading error of modern times is the mistaking
erudition for education. I call it the leading error, for I believe
that, with little difficulty, nearly every other might be shown to
have root in it ; and, most assuredly, the worst that are fallen
into on the subject of art.
Education then, briefly, is the leading human souls to what
is best, and making what is best out of them ; and these two
objects are always attainable together, and by the same means;
the training which makes men happiest in themselves, also
makes them most serviceable to others. True education, then,
has respect, first to the ends which are proposable to the man,
or attainable by him ; and, secondly, to the material of which
the man is made. So far as it is able, it chooses the end accord-
ing to the material : but it cannot always choose the end, for
the position of many persons in life is fixed by necessity ; still
220 APPENDIX, 7.
less can it choose the material ; and, therefore, all it can do, is
to fit the one to the other as wisely as may be.
But the first point to be understood, is that the material is
as various as the ends ; that not only one man is unlike another,
but every man is essentially different from every other, so that
no training, no forming, nor informing, will ever make two
persons alike in thought or in power. Among all men, whether
of the upper or lower orders, the differences are eternal and ir-
reconcilable, between one individual and another, born under
absolutely the same circumstances. One man is made of agate,
another of oak ; one of slate, another of clay. The education of
the first is polishing ; of the second, seasoning ; of the third,
rending ; of the fourth, moulding. It is of no use to season
the agate ; it is vain to try to polish the slate ; but both are
fitted, by the qualities they possess, for services in which they
may be honored.
Now the cry for the education of the lower classes, which is
heard every day more widely and loudly, is a wise and a sacred
cry, provided it be extended into one for the education of all
classes, with definite respect to the work each man has to do,
and the substance of which he is made. But it is a foolish and
vain cry, if it be understood, as in the plurality of cases it is
meant to be, for the expression of mere craving after knowledge,
irrespective of the simple purposes of the life that now is, and
blessings of that which is to come.
One great fallacy into which men are apt to fall when they
are reasoning on this subject is : that light, as such, is always
good ; and darkness, as such, always evil. Far from it. Light
untempered would be annihilation. It is good to them that sit
in darkness and in the shadow of death ; but, to those that faint
in the wilderness, so also is the shadow of the great rock in a,
weary land. If the sunshine is good, so also the cloud of the
latter rain. Light is only beautiful, only available for life,
when it is tempered with shadow ; pure light is fearful, and un-
endurable by humanity. And it is not less ridiculous to say
that the light, as such, is good in itself, than to say that
darkness is good in itself. Both are rendered safe, healthy,
and useful by the other ; the night by the day, the day bj
the night ; and we could just as easily live without the
APPENDIX, 7. 221
as without the sunset, so long as we are human. Of the celes-
tial city we are told there shall be "no night there," and then
we shall know even as also we are known : but the night and
the mystery have both their service here ; and . our business is
not to strive to turn the night into day, but to be sure that we
are as they that watch for the morning.
Therefore, in the education either of lower or upper classes,
it matters not the least how much or how little they know, pro-
vided they know just what will fit them to do their work, and
to be happy in it. What the sum or the nature of their knowl-
edge ought to be at a given time or in a given case, is a totally
different question : the main thing to be understood is, that a
man is not educated, in any sense whatsoever, because he can
read Latin, or write English, or can behave well in a drawing-
room ; but that he is only educated if he is happy, busy, benefi-
cent, and effective in the world ; that millions of peasants are
therefore at this moment better educated than most of those
who call themselves gentlemen ; and that the means taken to
" educate" the lower classes in any other sense may very often
be productive of a precisely opposite result.
Observe: I do not say, nor do I believe, that the lower classes
ought not to be better educated, in millions of ways, than they
are. I believe every man in a Christian kingdom ought to be
equally well educated. But I would have it education to purpose;
stern, practical, irresistible, in moral habits, in bodily strength
and beauty, in all faculties of mind capable of being developed
under the circumstances of the individual, and especially in the
technical knowledge of his own business; but yet, infinitely vari-
ous in its effort, directed to make one youth humble, and another
confident; to tranquillize this mind, to put some spark of ambi-
tion into that; now to urge, and now to restrain: and in the
doing of all this, considering knowledge as one only out of myriads
of means in its hands, or myriads of gifts at its disposal; and
giving it or withholding it as a good husbandman waters his
garden, giving the full shower only to the thirsty plants, and at
times when they are thirsty, whereas at present we pour it upon
the heads of our youth as the snow falls on the Alps, on one and
another alike, till they can bear no more, and then take honor to
ourselves because here and there a river descends from their
222 APPENDIX, 8.
crests into the valleys, not observing that we have made the
loaded hills themselves barren for ever.
Finally: I hold it for indisputable, that the first duty of a
state is to see that every child born therein shall be well housed,
clothed, fed, and educated, till it attain years of discretion. But
in order to the effecting this, the government must have an
authority over the people of which we now do not so much as
dream; and I cannot in this place pursue the subject farther.
8. EARLY VENETIAN MARRIAGES.
Galliciolli, lib. ii. § 1757, insinuates a doubt of the general
custom, saying " it would be more reasonable to suppose that
only twelve maidens were married in public on St. Mark's day;"
and Sandi also speaks of twelve only. All evidence, however,
is clearly in favor of the popular tradition; the most curious fact
connected with the subject being the mention, by Herodotus, of
the mode of marriage practised among the Illyrian " Veneti" of
his time, who presented their maidens for marriage on one day
in each year; and, with the 'price paid for those who were beau-
tiful, gave dowries to those who had no personal attractions.
It is very curious to find the traces of this custom existing,
though in a softened form, in Christian times. Still, I admit
that there is little confidence to be placed in the mere concur-
rence of the Venetian Chroniclers, who, for the most part, copied
from each other: but the best and most complete account I have1
read, is that quoted by Galliciolli from the " Matricola de' Cas-
seleri," written in 1449; and, in that account, the words are
quite unmistakable. " It was anciently the custom of Venice,
that all the brides (novizze) of Venice, when they married, should
be married by the bishop, in the Church of S. Pietro di Castello,
on St. Mark's day, which is the 31st of January. Rogers quotes
Navagiero to the same effect; and Sansovino is more explicit
still. " It was the custom to contract marriages openly; and
when the deliberations were completed, the damsels assembled
themselves in St. Pietro di Castello, for the feast of St. Mary, ii
February. "
APPENDIX, 9. 223
9. CHAKACTER OF THE VENETIAN ARISTOCRACY.
The following noble answer of a Venetian ambassador, Gius-
tiniani, on the occasion of an insult offered him at the court of
Henry the Eighth, is as illustrative of the dignity which there
yet remained in the character and thoughts of the Venetian
noble, as descriptive, in few words, of the early faith and deeds
of his nation. He writes thus to the Doge, from London, on the
15th of April, 1516:
"By my last, in date of the 30th ult., I informed you that
the countenances of some of these lords evinced neither friend-
ship nor goodwill, and that much language had been used to me
of a nature bordering not merely on arrogance, but even on
outrage; and not having specified this in the foregoing letters,
I think fit now to mention it in detail. Finding myself at the
court, and talking familiarly about other matters, two lay lords,
great personages in this kingdom, inquired of me ' whence it
came that your Excellency was of such slippery faith, now favor-
ing one party and then the other?' Although these words
ought to have irritated me, I answered them with all discretion,
'that you did keep, and ever had kept your faith; the main-
tenance of which has placed you in great trouble, and subjected
you to wars of longer duration than you would otherwise have
experienced; descending to particulars in justification of your
Sublimity.' Whereupon one of them replied, ' Isti Veneti sunt
piscatores.' * Marvellous was the command I then had over
myself in not giving vent to expressions which might have
proved injurious to your Signory; and with extreme moderation
I rejoined, ' that had he been at Venice, and seen our Senate,
and the Venetian nobility, he perhaps would not speak thus;
and moreover, were he well read in our history, both concerning
the origin of our city and the grandeur of your Excellency's
feats, neither the one nor the other Avould seem to him those
of fishermen; yet,' said I, 'did fishermen found the Christian
faith, and we have been those fishermen who defended it against
the forces of the Infidel, our fishing-boats being galleys and
ships, our hooks the treasure of St. Mark, and our bait the
life-blood of our citizens, who died for the Christian faith.'"
* "Those Venetians are fishermen."
224 10. FINAL APPENDIX.
I take this most interesting passage from a volume of de-
spatches addressed from London to the Signory of Venice, by the
ambassador Giustiniani, during the years 1516-1519; despatches
not only full of matters of historical interest, but of the most
delightful every-day description of all that went on at the Eng-
lish court. They were translated by Mr. Brown from the origi-
nal letters, and will, I believe, soon be published, and I hope
also, read and enjoyed: for I cannot close these volumes without
expressing a conviction, which has long been forcing itself upon
my mind, that restored history is of little more value than restored
painting or architecture; that the only history worth reading is
that written at the time* of which it treats, the history of what
was done and seen, heard out of the mouths of the men who did
and saw. One fresh draught of such history is worth more than
a thousand volumes of abstracts, and reasonings, and suppositions, ,
and theories; and I believe that, as we get wiser, we shall take
little trouble about the history of nations who have left no dis-
tinct records of themselves, but spend our time only in the
examination of the faithful documents which, in any period of
the world, have been left, either in the form of art or literature,
portraying the scenes, or recording the events, which in those
days were actually passing before the eyes of men.
10. FINAL APPENDIX.
The statements respecting the dates of Venetian buildings
made throughout the preceding pages, are founded, as above
stated, on careful and personal examination of all the mouldings,
or other features available as evidence, of every palace of impor-
tance in the city. Three parts, at least, of the time occupied in
the completion of the work have been necessarily devoted to the
collection of these evidences, of which it would be quite useless
to lay the mass before the reader; but of which the leading points
must be succinctly stated, in order to show the nature of my
authority for any of the conclusions expressed in the text.
I have therefore collected in the plates which illustrate this
article of the Appendix, for the examination of any reader who
may be interested by them, as many examples of the evidence-
bearing details as are sufficient for the proof required, especially
including all the exceptional forms; so that the reader may rest
I. BASES. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 225
assured that if I had been able to lay before' him all the evidence
in my possession, it would have been still more conclusive than
the portion now submitted to him.
We must examine in succession the Bases, Doorways and
Jambs, Capitals, Archivolts, Cornices, and Tracery Bars, of
Venetian architecture.
/. Bases,
The principal points we have to notice are the similarity and
simplicity of the Byzantine bases in general, and the distinction
between those of Torcello and Murano, and of St. Mark's, as
tending to prove the early dates attributed in the text to the
island churches. I have sufficiently illustrated the forms of the
Gothic bases in Plates X., XL, and XIII. of the first volume, so
that I here note chiefly the Byzantine or Romanesque ones,
adding two Gothic forms for the sake of comparison.
The most characteristic examples, then, are collected in Plate
V. opposite; namely:
1, 2, 3, 4. In the upper gallery of apse of Murano.
5. Lower shafts of apse. Murano.
6. Casa Falier.
7. Small shafts of panels. Casa Farsetti.
8. Great shafts and plinth. Casa Farsetti.
9. Great lower shafts. Fondaco de' Turchi.
10. Ducal Palace, upper arcade.
PLATE V. 11. General late Gothic form.
Vol. III. 12. Tomb of Dogaressa Vital Michele, in St. Mark's
atrium.
13. Upper arcade of Madonnetta House.
14. Rio-Foscari House.
15. Upper arcade. Terraced House.
16. 17, 18. Nave. Torcello.
19, 20. Transepts. St. Mark's.
21. Nave. St. Mark's.
22. External pillars of northern portico. St. Mark's.
23. 24. Clustered pillars of northern portico. Su
Mark's.
25, 26. Clustered pillars of southern portico. St.
Mark's.
226 10. FINAL APPENDIX. I. EASES.
Now, observe, first, the enormous difference in style between
the bases 1 to 5, and the rest in the upper row, that is to say,
between the bases of Murano and the twelfth and thirteenth
century bases of Venice; and, secondly, the difference between
the bases 16 to 20 and the rest in the lower row, that is to say,
between the bases of Torcello (with those of St. Mark's which
belong to the nave, and which may therefore be supposed to be
part of the earlier church), and the later ones of the St. Mark's
Faqade.
Secondly: Note the fellowship between 5 and 6, one of the
evidences of the early date of the Casa Falier.
Thirdly: Observe the slurring of the upper roll into the
cavetto, in 13, 14, and 15, and the consequent relationship
established between three most important buildings, the Rio-
Foscari House, Terraced House, and Madonnetta House.
Fourthly: Byzantine bases, if they have an incision between
the upper roll and cavetto, are very apt to approach the form of
fig. 23, in which the upper roll is cut out of the flat block, and
the ledge beneath it is sloping. Compare Nos. 7, 8, 9, 21, 22,
23, 24, 25, 26. On the other hand, the later Gothic base, 11.
has always its upper roll well developed, and, generally, the fillet
between it and the cavetto vertical. The sloping fillet is indeed
found down to late periods; and the vertical fillet, as in No. 12,
in Byzantine ones; but still, when a base has such a sloping fillet
and peculiarly graceful sweeping cavetto, as those of No. 10,
looking as if they would run into one line with each other, it is
strong presumptive evidence of its belonging to an early, rather
than a late period.
The base 12 is the boldest example I could find of the excep-
tional form in early times; but observe, in this, that the upper
roll is larger than the lower. This is never the case in late
Gothic, where the proportion is always as in fig. 11. Observe
.that in Nos. 8 and 9 the upper rolls are at least as large as the
lower, an important evidence of the dates of the Casa Farsetti
and Fondaco de' Turchi.
Lastly: Note the peculiarly steep profile of No. 22, with
reference to what is said of this base in Vol. II. Appendix 9.
U. DOORWAYS.
10. FINAL APPENDIX.
227
//. Doorways and Jambs.
The entrances to St. Mark's consist, as above mentioned, of
great circular or ogee porches; underneath which the real open
entrances, in which the valves of the bronze doors play, are
square- headed.
The mouldings of the jambs
of these doors are highly curious,
and the most characteristic are
therefore represented in one
view. The outsides of the
jambs are lowest.
a. Northern lateral door.
&. First northern door of the
facade.
c. Second door of the facade.
d. Fourth door of the facade.
e. Central door of the facade.
228 10. FINAL APPENDIX.
II. DOORWAYS.
I wish the reader especially to note the arbitrary character of
the curves and incisions; all evidently being drawn by hand,
none being segments of circles, none like another, none influenced
by any visible law. I do not give these mouldings as beautiful;
they ara, for the most part, very poor in effect, but they are
singularly characteristic of the free work of the time.
The kind of door to which these mouldings belong, is shown,
with the other groups of doors, in Plate XIV. Vol. II. fig. 6 a.
Then 6 b, 6 c, 6 d represent the groups of doors in which the
Byzantine influence remained energetic, admitting slowly the
forms of the pointed Gothic; 7 a, with the gable above, is the
intermediate group between the Byzantine and Gothic schools;
7 b, 7 c, 7 d, 7 e are the advanced guards of the Gothic and Lom-
bardic invasions, representative of a large number of thirteenth
century arcades and doors. Observe that 6 d is shown to be of a
late school by its finial, and 6 e of the latest school by its finial,
complete ogee arch (instead of round or pointed), and aban-
donment of the lintel.
These examples, with the exception of 6 a, which is a general
form, are all actually existing doors; namely:
6 b. In the Fondamenta Venier, near St. Maria della Salute.
6 c. In the Calle delle Botteri, between the Rialto and San
Cassan.
6 d. Main door of San Gregorio.
6 e. Door of a palace in Rio San Paternian.
7 a. Door of a small courtyard near house of Marco Polo.
7 b. Arcade in narrow canal, at the side of Casa Barbaro.
7 c. At the turn of the canal, close to the Ponte dell' Angelo.
7 d. In Sio San Paternian (a ruinous house).
7 e. At the turn of the canal on which the Sotto Portico della
Stua opens, near San Zaccaria.
If the reader will take a magnifying glass to the figure 6 d, he
•will see that its square ornaments, of which, in the real door,
each contains a rose, diminish to the apex of the arch; a very
interesting and characteristic circumstance, showing the subtle
feeling of the Gothic builders. They must needs diminish the
ornamentation, in order to sympathize with the delicacy of the
point of the arch. The magnifying glass will also show the
n. DOORWAYS. 10. FIKAL APPEKDIX. 229
Bondumieri shield in No. 7 d, and the Leze shield in No. 7 e,
both introduced on the keystones in the grand early manner.
The mouldings of these various doors will be noticed under the
head Archivolt.
Now, throughout the city we find a number of doors resem-
bling the square doors of St. Mark, and occurring with rare ex-
ceptions either in buildings of the Byzantine period, or imbedded
in restored houses; never, in a single instance, forming a con-
nected portion of any late building; and they therefore furnish
a most important piece of evidence, wherever they are part of
the original structure of a Gothic building, that such building is
one of the advanced guards of the Gothic school, and belongs to
its earliest period.
On Plate VI., opposite, are assembled all the important ex-
amples I could find in Venice of these mouldings. The reader
will see at a glance their peculiar character, and unmistakable
likeness to each other. The following are the references:
1. Door in Calle Mocenigo.
2. Angle of tomb of Dogaressa Vital Michel e.
3. Door in Sotto Portico, St. Apollonia (near Ponte
di Canonica).
4. Door in Calle della Verona (another like it is close
by).
5. Angle of tomb of Doge Marino Morosini.
6. 7. Door in Calle Mocenigo.
8. Door in Campo S. Margherita.
PLATE VI. 9. Door at Traghetto San Samuele, on south side of
Vol. III. Grand Canal.
10. Door at Ponte St. Toma.
11. Great door of Church of Servi.
12. In Calle della Chiesa, Campo San Filippo e
Giacomo.
13. Door of house in Calle di Bimedio (Vol. II.).
14. Door in Fondaco de' Turchi.
15. Door in Fondamenta Malcanton, near Campo S.
Margherita.
16. Door in south side of Canna Reggio.
17. 18. Doors in Sotto Portico dei Squellmi.
230 10. FIKAL APPENDIX, a DOORWAYS.
The principal points to be noted in these mouldings are
their curious differences of level, as marked by the dotted lines,
more especially in 14, 15, 16, and the systematic projection of
the outer or lower mouldings in 16, 17, 18. Then, as points of
evidence, observe that 1 is the jamb and 6 the archivolt (7 the
angle on a larger scale) of the brick door given in my folio work
from Ramo di rimpetto Mocenigo, one of the evidences of the
early date of that door; 8 is the jamb of the door in Campo
Santa Margherita (also given in my folio work), fixing the early
date of that also; 10 is from a Gothic door opening off the Ponte
St. Toma; and 11 is also from a Gothic building. All the rest
are from Byzantine work, or from ruins. The angle of the tomb
of Marino Morosini (5) is given for comparison only.
The doors with the mouldings 17, 18, are from the two ends
of a small dark passage, called the Sotto Portico dei Squellini,
opening near Ponte Cappello, on the Rio-Marin : 14 is the outside
one, arranged as usual, and at a, in the rough stone, are places
for the staples of the door valve; 15, at the other end of the pas-
sage, opening into the little Corte dei Squellini, is set with the
part a outwards, it also having places for hinges; but it is curi-
ous that the rich moulding should be set in towards the dark
passage, though natural that the doors should both open one way.
The next Plate, VII. , will show the principal characters of
the Gothic jambs, and the total difference between them and the
Byzantine ones. Two more Byzantine forms, 1 and 2, are given
here for the sake of comparison; then 3, 4, and 5 are the com-
mon profiles of simple jambs of doors in the Gothic period; 6 is
one of the jambs of the Frari windows, continuous into the
archivolt, and meeting the traceries, where the line is set upon
it at the extremity of its main slope; 7 and 8 are jambs of the
Ducal Palace windows, in which the great semicircle is the half
sshaft which sustains the traceries, and the rest of the profile is
continuous in the archivolt; 17, 18, and 19 are the principal piers
of the Ducal Palace; and 20, from St. Fermo of Verona, is put
with them in order to show the step of transition from the By-
zantine form 2 to the Gothic chamfer, which is hardly represented
at Venice. The other profiles on the plate are all late Gothic,
given to show the gradual increase of complexity without any
gain of power. The open lines in 12, 14, 16, etc., are the parts
III. CAPITALS.
10. FINAL APPENDIX. 231
of the profile cut into flowers or cable mouldings; and so much
incised as to show the constant outline of the cavetto or curve
beneath them. The following are the references:
1. Door in house of Marco Polo.
2. Old door in a restored church of St. Cassan.
3. 4, 5. Common jambs of Gothic doors.
6. Frari windows.
7, 8. Ducal Palace windows.
9. Casa Priuli, great entrance.
10. San Stefano, great door.
PLATE VII. 11. San Gregorio, door opening to the water.
Vol. III. 12. Lateral door, Frari.
13. Door of Campo San Zaccaria.
14. Madonna dell' Orto.
15. San Gregorio, door in the fa9ade.
16. Great lateral door, Frari.
17. Pilaster at Vine angle, Ducal Palace.
18. Pier, inner cortile, Ducal Palace.
19. Pier, under the medallion of Venice, on the
Piazetta faqade of the Ducal Palace.
///. Capitals.
I shall here notice the various facts I have omitted in the text
of the work.
First, with respect to the Byzantine Capitals represented in
Plate VII. Vol. II., I omitted to notice that figs. 6 and 7 repre-
sent two sides of the same capital at Murano (though one is
necessarily drawn on a smaller scale than the other). Fig. 7 is
the side turned to the light, and fig. 6 to the shade, the inner
part, which is quite concealed, not being touched at all.
We have here a conclusive proof that these capitals were cut
for their place in the apse; therefore I have always considered
them as tests of Venetian workmanship, and, on the strength of
that proof, have occasionally spoken of capitals as of true Vene-
tian work, which M. Lazari supposes to be of the Lower Empire.
No. 11, from St. Mark's, was not above noticed. The way in
which the cross is gradually left in deeper relief as the sides slope
inwards and away from it, is highly picturesque and curious.
232 10. FINAL APPENDIX. m. CAPITALS.
No. 9 has been reduced from a larger drawing, and some of
the life and character of the curves lost in consequence. It is
chiefly given to show the irregular and fearless freedom of the
Byzantine designers, no two parts of the foliage being correspon-
dent; in the original it is of white marble, the ground being
colored blue.
Plate X. Vol. II. represents the four principal orders of
Venetian capitals in their greatest simplicity, and the profiles of
the most interesting examples of each. The figures 1 and 4
are the two great concave and convex groups, and 2 and 3 the
transitional. Above each type of form I have put also an exam-
ple of the group of flowers which represent it in nature: fig. 1
has a lily ; fig. 2 a variety of the Tulipa sylvestris ; figs. 3 and
4 forms of the magnolia. I prepared this plate in the early
spring, when I could not get any other examples,* or I would
rather have had two different species for figs. 3 and 4 ; but the
half-open magnolia will answer the purpose, showing the beauty
of the triple curvature in the sides.
I do not say that the forms of the capitals are actually taken
from flowers, though assuredly so in some instances, and par-
tially so in the decoration of nearly all. But they were designed
by men of pure and natural feeling for beauty, who therefore
instinctively adopted the forms represented, which are after-
wards proved to be beautiful by their frequent occurrence in
common flowers.
The convex forms, 3 and 4, are put lowest in the plate only
because they are heaviest; they are the earliest in date, and have
already been enough examined.
I have added a plate to this volume (Plate XII.), which
should have appeared in illustration of the fifth chapter of Vol.
II., but was not finished in time. It represents the central capi-
tal and two of the lateral ones of the Fondaco de' Turchi, the
central one drawn very large, in order to show the excessive
simplicity of its chiselling, together with the care and sharpness
of it, each leaf being expressed by a series of sharp furrows and
* I am afraid that the kind friend, Lady Trevelyan, who helped me to
finish this plate, will not like to be thanked here ; but I cannot let her send
into Devonshire for magnolias, and draw them for me, without thanking
her.
m. CAPITALS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 233
ridges. Some slight errors in the large tracings from which the
engraving was made have, however, occasioned a loss of spring
in the curves, and the little fig. 4 of Plate X. Vol. II. gives a
truer idea of the distant effect of the capital.
The profiles given in Plate X. Vol. II. are the following :
1. a. Main capitals, upper arcade, Madonnetta House.
J. Main capitals, upper arcade, Casa Falier.
c. Lateral capitals, upper arcade, Fondaco de' Tur-
chi.
d. Small pillars of St. Mark's Pulpit.
e. Casa Farsetti.
/. Inner capitals of arcade of Ducal Palace.
g. Plinth of the house* at Apostoli.
h. Main capitals of house at Apostoli.
i. Main capitals, upper arcade, Fondaco de' Turchi.
• a. Lower arcade, Fondaco de' Turchi.
b, c. Lower pillars, house at Apostoli.
d. San Simeon Grande. •
PLATE X. e. Restored house on Grand Canal. Three of the
VOL. II. 2. old arches left.
/. Upper arcade, Ducal Palace.
g. Windows of third order, central shaft, Ducal Pal'
ace.
h. Windows of third order, lateral shaft, Ducal Pal
ace.
i. Ducal Palace, main shafts.
Tc. Piazzetta shafts.
3. a. St. Mark's Nave.
b. c. Lily capitals, St. Mark's.
a. Fondaco de' Turchi, central shaft, upper arcade.
5. Murano, upper arcade.
c. Murano, lower arcade.
d. Tomb of St. Isidore.
e. General late Gothic profile.
* That is, the house in the parish of the Apostoli, on the Grand Canal,
noticed in Vol. II.; and see also the Venetian Index, under head "Apes-
toH."
234 10. FINAL APPENDIX.
III. CAPITALS.
The last two sections are convex in effect, though not in real-
ity; the bulging lines being carved into bold flower-work.
The capitals belonging to the groups 1 and 2, in the Byzan-
tine times, have already been illustrated in Plate VIII. Vol. II. ;
we have yet to trace their succession in the Gothic times. This
is done in Plate II. of this volume, which we will now examine
carefully. The following are the capitals represented in that
plate:
1. Small shafts of St. Mark's Pulpit.
2. From the transitional house in the Calle di Kime-
dio (conf. Vol. II.).
3. General simplest form of the middle Gothic capi-
tal.
4. Nave of San Giacomo de Lorio.
5. Casa Falier.
6. Early Gothic house in Campo Sta. M*. Mater
Domini. §
PLATE II. 7. House at the Apostoli.
Vol. III. 8. Piazzetta shafts.
9. Ducal Palace, upper arcade.
10. Palace of Marco Querini.
11. Fondaco de' Turchi.
12. Gothic palaces in Campo San Polo.
13. Windows of fourth order, Plate XVI. Vol. II.
14. Nave of Church of San Stefano.
15. Late Gothic Palace at the Miracoli.
The two lateral columns form a consecutive series : the cen-
tral column is a group of exceptional character, running parallel
with both. We will take the lateral ones first. 1. Capital of
pulpit of St. Mark's (representative of the simplest concave forms
of the Byzantine period). Look back to Plate VIII. Vol. II.,
and observe that while all the forms in that plate are contempo-
raneous, we are now going to follow a series consecutive in time,
which begins from fig. 1, either in that plate or in this ; that is
to say, with the simplest possible condition to be found at the
time; and which proceeds to develope itself into gradually
increasing richness, while the already rich capitals of the old
school die at its side. In the forms 14 and 15 (Plate VIII.) the
Hi. CAPITALS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 235
Byzaritine school expired; but from the Byzantine simple capital
(1, Plate II. above) which was coexistent with them, sprang
another hardy race of capitals, whose succession we have now to
trace.
The form 1, Plate II. is evidently the simplest conceivable
condition of the truncated capital, long ago represented gener-
ally in Vol. I. , being only rounded a little on its side to fit it to
the shaft. The next step was to place a leaf beneath each of the
truncations (fig. 4, Plate II., San Giacomo de Lorio), the end of
the leaf curling over at the top in a somewhat formal spiral,
partly connected with the traditional volute of the Corinthian
capital. The sides are then enriched by the addition of some
ornament, as a shield (fig. 7) or rose (fig. 10), and we have the'
formed capital of the early Gothic. Fig. 10, being from the
palace of Marco Querini, is certainly not later than the middle
of the thirteenth century (see Vol. II.), and fig. 7, is, I believe,
of the same date ; it is one of the bearing capitals of the lower
story of the palace at the Apostoli, and is remarkably fine in the
treatment of its angle leaves, which are not deeply under-cut,
but show their magnificent sweeping under surface all the way
down, not as a leaf surface, but treated like the gorget of a hel-
met, with a curved line across it like that where the gorget
meets the mail. I never saw anything finer in simple design.
Fig. 10 is given chiefly as a certification of date, and to show the
treatment of the capitals of this school on a small scale. Ob-
serve the more expansive head in proportion to the diameter of
the shaft, the leaves being drawn from the angles, as if gathered
in the hand, till their edges meet ; and compare the rule given
in Vol. I. Chap. IX. §xiv. The capitals of the remarkable
house, of which a portion is represented in Fig. XXXI. Vol. II.,
are most curious and pure examples of this condition ; with
experimental trefoils, roses, and leaves introduced between their
volutes. When compared with those of the Queriui Palace,
they form one of the mos.t important evidences of the date of the
building.
Fig. 13. One of the bearing capitals, already drawn on a
small scale in the windows represented in Plate XVI. Vol. II.
Now, observe. Thfc capital of the form of fig. 10 appeared
sufficient to the Venetians for all ordinary purposes ; and they
236 10. FINAL APPENDIX. m. CAPITALS
used it in common windows to the latest Gothic periods, but yet
with certain differences which at once show the lateness of the
work. In the first place, the rose, which at first was flat and
quatref oiled, becomes, after some experiments, around ball divid-
ing into three leaves, closely resembling our English ball flower,
and probably derived from it; and, in other cases, forming a bold
projecting bud in various degrees of . contraction or expansion.
In the second place, the extremities of the angle leaves are
wrought into rich flowing lobes, and bent back so as to lap
against their own breasts ; showing lateness of date in exact pro-
portion to the looseness of curvature. Fig. 3 represents the gen-
eral aspect of these later capitals, which may be conveniently
'called the rose capitals of Venice ; two are seen on service, in
Plate VIII. Vol. I., showing comparatively early date by the
experimental form of the six-foiled rose. But for elaborate edi-
fices this form was not sufficiently rich ; and there was felt to be
something awkward in the junction of the leaves at the bottom.
Therefore, four other shorter leaves were added at the sides, as
in fig. 13, Plate II., and as generally represented in Plate X.
Vol. II. fig. 1. This was a good and noble step, taken very
early in the thirteenth century ; and all the best Venetian capi-
tals were thenceforth of this form. Those which followed, and
rested in the common rose type, were languid and unfortunate :
I do not know a single good example of them after the first half
of the thirteenth century.
But the form reached in fig. 13 was quickly felt to be of
great value and power. One would have thought it might have
been taken straight from the Corinthian type ; but it is clearly
the work of men who were making experiments for themselves.
For instance, in the central capital of Fig. XXXI. Vol. II., there
is a trial condition of it, with the intermediate leaf set behind
those at the angles (the reader had better take a magnifying
glass to this woodcut ; it will show the character of the capitals
better). Two other experimental forms occur in the Casa
Cicogna (Vol. II. ), and supply one of the evidences which fix
the date of that palace. But the form soon was determined as
in fig. 13, and then means were sought of recommending it by
farther decoration.
The leaves which are used in fig. 13, it will be observed, ha\
III. CAPITALS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 237
lost the Corinthian volute, and are now pure and plain leaves,
such as were used in the Lombardic Gothic of the early
thirteenth century all over Italy. Now in a round-arched gate-
way at Verona, certainly not later than 1300 ; the pointed leaves
of this pure form are used in one portion of the mouldings, and
in another are enriched by having their surfaces carved each
into a beautiful ribbed and pointed leaf. The capital, fig. 6,
Plate II., is nothing more than fig. 13 so enriched; and the
two conditions are quite contemporary, fig. 13 being from »
beautiful series of fourth order windows in Campo Sta. Ma-
Mater Domini, already drawn in my folio work.
Fig. 13 is representative of the richest conditions of Gothic
capital which existed at the close of the thirteenth century.
The builder of the Ducal Palace amplified them into the form of
fig. 9, but varying the leafage in disposition and division of
lobes in every capital ; and the workmen trained under him
executed many noble capitals for the Gothic palaces of the early
fourteenth century, of which fig. 12, from a palace in the
Campo St. Polo, is one of the most beautiful examples. In figs. 9
and 12 the reader sees the Venetian Gothic capital in its noblest
developement. The next step was to such forms as fig. 15,
which is generally characteristic of the late fourteenth and earlj
fifteenth century Gothic, and of which I hope the reader will al
once perceive the exaggeration and corruption.
This capital is from a palace near the Miracoli, and it is re^
markable for the delicate, though corrupt, ornament on its
abacus, which is precisely the same as that on the pillars of the
screen of St. Mark's. That screen is a monument of very great
value, for it shows the entire corruption of the Gothic power,
•and the style of the later palaces accurately and completely
defined in all its parts, and is dated 1380; thus at once furnish-
ing us with a limiting date, which throws all the noble work of
the early Ducal Palace, and all that is like it in Venice,
thoroughly back into the middle of the fourteenth century at the
latest.
Fig. 2 is the simplest condition of the capital universally
employed in the windows of the second order, noticed above,
Vol. II., as belonging to a style of great importance in the
transitional architecture of Venice. Observe, that in all the
238 10. FINAL APPENDIX. m CAPITALS.
capitals given in the lateral columns in Plate II., the points of
the leaves turn over. But in this central group they lie flat
against the angle of the capital, and form a peculiarly light and
lovely succession of forms, occurring only in their purity in the
windows of the second order, and in some important monuments
connected with them.
In fig. 2 the leaf at the angle is cut, exactly in the manner of
an Egyptian bas-relief, into the stone, with a raised edge round
it, and a raised rib up the centre ; and this mode of execution,
seen also in figs. 4 and 7, is one of the collateral evidences of
early date. But in figs. 5 and 8, where more elaborate effect
was required, the leaf is thrown out boldly with an even edge
from the surface of the capital, and enriched on its own surface :
and as the treatment of fig. 2 corresponds with that of fig. 4,
so that of fig. 5 corresponds with that of fig. 6; 2 and 5 hav-
ing the upright leaf, 4 and 6 the bending leaves ; but all con-
temporary.
Fig. 5 is the central capital of the windows of Casa Falier,
drawn in Plate XV. Vol. II. ; and one of the leaves set on its
angles is drawn larger at fig. 7, Plate XX. Vol. II. It has no
rib, but a sharp raised ridge down its centre ; and its lobes, of
which the reader will observe the curious form, — round in the
middle one, truncated in the sides, — are wrought with a preci-
sion and care which I have hardly ever seen equalled : but of
this more presently.
The next figure (8, Plate II.) is the most important capital of
the whole transitional period, that employed on the two columns
of the Piazzetta. These pillars are said to have been raised in
the close of the twelfth century, but I cannot find even the most
meagre account of their bases, capitals, or, which seems to me
most wonderful, of that noble winged lion, one of the grandest :
things produced by mediaeval art, which all men admire, and
none can draw. I have never yet seen a faithful representation-
of his firm, fierce, and fiery strength. I believe that both he)
and the capital which bears him are late thirteenth century work,
I have not been up to the lion, and cannot answer for it ; but ifj
it be not thirteenth century work, it is as good ; and respecting
the capitals, there can be small question. They are of exactly
the date of the oldest tombs, bearing crosses, outside of
III. CAPITALS
10. FINAL APPENDIX. 239
John and Paul ; and are associated with all the other work of
the transitional period, from 1250 to 1300 (the bases of these
pillars, representing the trades of Venice, ought, by the by, to
have been mentioned as among the best early efforts of Vene-
tian grotesque); and, besides, their abaci are formed by four
reduplications of the dentilled mouldings of St. Mark's, which
never occur after the year 1300.
Nothing can be more beautiful or original than the adaptation
of these broad bearing abaci ; but as they have nothing to do
with the capital itself, and could not easily be brought into the
space, they are omitted in Plate II., where fig. 8 shows the bell
of the capital only. Its profile is curiously subtle, — apparently
concave everywhere, but in reality concave (all the way down)
only on the angles, and slightly convex at the sides (the profile
through the side being 2 k, Plate X. Vol. II.) ; in this subtlety
of curvature, as well as in the simple cross, showing the influence
of early times.
The leaf on the angle, of which more presently, is fig. 5, Plate
XX. Vol. II.
Connected with this school of transitional capitals we find a
form in the later Gothic, such as fig. 14, from the Church of
San Stefano ; but which appears in part derived from an old and
rich Byzantine type, of which fig. 11, from the Fondaco de'
Turchi, is a characteristic example.
I must now take the reader one step farther, and ask him to
examine, finally, the treatment of the leaves, down to the cutting
of their most minute lobes, in the series of capitals of which we
have hitherto only sketched the general forms.
In all capitals with nodding leaves, such as 6 and 9 in Plate
II. , the real form of the leaf is not to be seen, except in perspec-
tive ; but, in order to render the comparison more easy, I have in
Plate XX. Vol. II. opened all the leaves out, as if they were to
be dried in a herbarium, only leaving the furrows and sinuosi-
ties of surface, but laying the outside contour nearly flat upon
the page, except for a particular reason in figs. 2 10, 11,
and 15.
I shall first, as usual, give the references, and then note the
points of interest.
240 10. FINAL APPENDIX. m. CAPITALS.
1, 2, 3. Fondaco de' Turchi, upper arcade.
4. Greek pillars brought from St. Jean d'Acre.
5. Piazzetta shafts.
6. Madonnetta House.
PLATE XX. 7. Casa Falier.
Vol. II. 8. Palace near St. Eustachio.
• 9. Tombs, outside of St. John and Paul.
10. Tomb of Giovanni Soranzo.
11. Tomb of Andrea Dandolo.
12. 13, 14. Ducal Palace.
N.B. The upper row, 1 to 4, is Byzantine, the next tran-
sitional, the last two Gothic.
Fig. 1. The leaf of the capital No. 6, Plate VIII. Vol. II.
Each lobe of the leaf has a sharp furrow up to its point, from its
root.
Fig. 2. The leaf of the capital on the right hand, at the top
of Plate XII. in this volume. The lobes worked in the same
manner, with deep black drill holes between their points.
Fig. 3. One of the leaves of fig. 14, Plate VIII. Vol. II. fully
unfolded. The lobes worked in the same manner, but left shal-
low, so as not to destroy the breadth of light ; the central line
being drawn by drill holes, and the interstices between lobes cut
black and deep.
Fig. 4. Leaf with flower ; pure Byzantine work, showing
whence the treatment of all the other leaves has been derived.
Fig. 6. For the sake of symmetry, this is put in the centre :
it is the earliest of the three in this row ; taken from the Ma-
donnetta House, where the capitals have leaves both at their
sides and angles. The tall angle leaf, with its two lateral ones,
is given in the plate ; and there is a remarkable distinction in
the mode of workmanship of these leaves, which, though found
in a palace of the Byzantine period, is indicative of a tendency
to transition ; namely, that the sharp furrow is now drawn only
to the central lobe of each division of the leaf, and the rest of
the surface of the leaf is left nearly flat, a slight concavity 01
marking the division of the extremities. At the base of the
leaves they are perfectly flat, only cut by the sharp and narrot
furrow, as an elevated table-land is by ravines.
«t CAPITALS.
10. FttfAL APPENDIX. 241
Fig. 5. A more advanced condition ; the fold at the recess,
between each division of the leaf, carefully expressed, and the
concave or depressed portions of the extremities marked more
deeply, as well as the central furrow, and a rib added in the
centre.
Fig. 7. A contemporary, but more finished form ; the
sharp furrows becoming softer, and the whole leaf more
flexible.
Fig. 8. An exquisite form of the same period, but show-
ing still more advanced naturalism, from a very early group of
third order windows, near the Church of St. Eustachio on the
Grand Canal.
Fig. 9. Of the same time, from a small capital of an angle
shaft of the sarcophagi at the side of St. John and Paul, in the
little square which is adorned by the Colleone statue. This
leaf is very quaint and pretty in giving its midmost lateral
divisions only two lobes each, instead of the usual three or
four.
Fig. 10. Leaf employed in the cornice of the tomb of the
Doge Giovanni Soranzo, who died in 1312. It nods over, and
has three ribs on its upper surface ; thus giving us the com-
pleted ideal form of the leaf, but its execution is still very
archaic and severe.
Now the next example, fig. 11, is from the tomb of the Doge
Andrea Dandolo, and therefore executed between 1354 and 1360;
and this leaf shows the Gothic naturalism and refinement of
curvature fully developed. In this forty years' interval, then,
the principal advance of Gothic sculpture is to be placed.
I had prepared a complete series of examples, showing this
advance, and the various ways in which the separations of the
ribs, a most characteristic feature, are more and more delicately
and scientifically treated, from the beginning to the middle of
the fourteenth century, but I feared that no general reader
would care to follow me into these minutiae, and have cancelled
this portion of the work, at least for the present, the main point
being, that the reader should feel the full extent of the change,
which he can hardly fail to do in looking from fig. 10 to figs. 11
and 12. I believe that fig. 12 is the earlier of the two ; and it
is assuredly the finer, having all the elasticity and simplicity of
242 10. FIKAL APPEHDIX.
III. CAPITALS.
the earliest forms, with perfect flexibility added. In fig. 11
there is a perilous element beginning to develope itself into one
feature, namely, the extremities of the leaves, which, instead of
merely nodding over, now curl completely round into a kind of
ball. This occurs early, and in the finest Gothic work, espe-
cially in cornices and other running mouldings : but it is a fatal
symptom, a beginning of the intemperance of the later Gothic,
and it was followed out with singular avidity ; the ball of coiled
leafage increasing in size and complexity, and at last becoming
the principal feature of the work ; the light striking on its
vigorous projection, as in fig. 14. Nearly all the Kenaissance
Gothic of Venice depends upon these balls for effect, a late capi-
tal being generally composed merely of an upper and lower range
of leaves terminating in this manner.
It is very singular and notable how, in this loss of temperance,
there is loss of life. For truly healthy and living leaves do not
bind themselves into knots at the extremities. They bend, and
vave, and nod, but never curl. It is in disease, or in death, by
blight, v>r frost, or poison only, that leaves in general assume
this ingathered form. It is the flame of autumn that has
shrivelled them, or the web of the caterpillar that has bound
them : and thus the last forms of the Venetian leafage set forth
the fate of Venetian pride ; and, in their utmost luxuriance and
abandonment, perish as if eaten of worms.
And now, by glancing back to Plate X. Vol. II. , the reader
.will see in a moment the kind of evidence which is found of the
date of capitals in their profiles merely. Observe : we have seen
that the treatment of the leaves in the Madonnetta House seemed
" indicative of a tendency to transition." Note their profile, la,
and its close correspondence with 1 h, which is actually of a
transitional capital from the upper arcade of second order
windows in the Apostoli Palace ; yet both shown to be very
close to the Byzantine period, if not belonging to it, by their
fellowship with the profile i, from the Fondaco de' Turchi.
Then note the close correspondence of all the other profiles in
that line, which belong to the concave capitals or plinths of the
Byzantine palaces, and note their composition, the abacus bein
in idea, merely an echo or reduplication of the capital itself ;
seen in perfect simplicity in the profile /, which is a roll und
HI. CAPITALS. 10. FIKAL APPENDIX. 243
a fall concave curve forming the bell of the capital, with a roll
and short concave curve for its abacus. This peculiar abacus is
an unfailing test of early date ; and our finding this simple pro-
file used for the Ducal Palace (/), is strongly confirmatory of all
our former conclusions.
Then the next row, 2, are the Byzantine and early Gothic
semi-convex curves, in their pure forms, having no roll below ;
but often with a roll added, as at /, and in certain early Gothic
conditions curiously fused into it, with a cavetto between, as b,
c, d. But the more archaic form is as at / and Tc ; and as these
two profiles are from the Ducal Palace and Piazzetta shafts, they
join again with the rest of the evidence of their early date. The
profiles i and k are both most beautiful ; i is that of the great
capitals of the Ducal Palace, and the small profiles between it
and k are the varieties used on the fillet at its base. The profile
i should have had leaves springing from it, as 1 A has, only more
boldly, but there was no room for them.
The reader cannot fail to discern at a glance the fellowship
of the whole series of profiles, 2 a io k, nor can he but with equal
ease observe a marked difference in 4 d and 4 e from any others
in the plate ; the bulging outlines of leafage being indicative of
the luxuriant and flowing masses, no longer expressible with a
simple line, but to be considered only as confined within it, of
the later Gothic. Now d is a dated profile from the tomb of
St. Isidore, 1355, which by its dog-tooth abacus and heavy leaf-
age distinguishes itself from all the other profiles, and therefore
throws them back into the first half of the century. But, ob-
serve, it still retains the noble swelling root. This character
soon after vanishes ; and, in 1380, the profile e, at once heavy,
feeble, and ungraceful, with a meagre and valueless abacus
hardly discernible, is characteristic of all the capitals of Venice.
Note, finally, this contraction of the abacus. Compare 4 c,
which is the earliest form in the plate, from Murano, with 4 e,
which is the latest. The other profiles show the gradual pro-
cess of change ; only observe, in 3« the abacus is not drawn ; it
is so bold that it would not come into the plate without reducing
the bell curve to too small a scale.
So much for the evidence derivable from the capitals ; we
have next to examine that of the archivolts or arch mouldings.
244 10. FINAL APPENDIX. rv. ARCHtVOLTS.
IV. ArcMvoUs.
In Plate VIII., opposite, are arranged in one view all the
conditions of Byzantine archivolt employed in Venice, on a large
scale. It will be seen in an instant that there can be no mis-
taking the manner of their masonry. The soffit of the arch is
the horizontal line at the bottom of all these profiles, and each of
them (except 13, 14) is composed of two slabs of marble, one
for the soffit, another for the face of the arch; the one on the
soffit is worked on the edge into a roll (fig. 10) or dentil (fig. 9),
and the one on the face is bordered on the other side by another
piece let edgeways into the wall, and also worked into a roll or
dentil: in the richer archivolts a cornice is added to this roll, as
in figs. 1 and 4, or takes its place, as in figs. 1, 3, 5, and 6; and
in such richer examples the facestone, and often the soffit, are
sculptured, the sculpture being cut into their surfaces, as indi-
cated in fig. 11. The concavities cut in the facestones of 1, 2, 4,
5, 6 are all indicative of sculpture in effect like that of Fig.
XXVI. Vol. II., of which archivolt fig. 5, here, is the actual
profile. The following are the references to the whole :
1. Rio-Foscari House.
2. Terraced House, entrance door.
3. Small Porticos of St. Mark's, external arches.
4. Arch on the canal at Ponte St. Toma.
5. Arch of Corte del Reiner.
6. Great outermost archivolt of central door, St.
Mark's.
_TTT 7. Inner archivolt of southern porch, St. Mark's
PLATE VIII. ™ -,
VoL III Fagade.
8. Inner archivolt of central entrance, St. Mark's.
9. Fondaco" de' Turchi, main arcade.
10. Byzantine restored house on Grand Canal, lower
arcade.
11. Terraced House, upper arcade.
12. Inner archivolt of northern porch of fagade, St
Mark's.
13 and 14. Transitional forms.
IV. ARCHIVOLTS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 245
There is little to be noted respecting these forms, except that,
in fig. 1, the two lower rolls, with the angular projections be-
tween, represent the fall of the mouldings of two proximate
arches on the abacus of the bearing shaft ; their two cornices
meeting each other, and being gradually narrowed into the little
angular intermediate piece, their sculptures being slurred into
the contracted space, a curious proof of the earliness of the
work. The real archivolt moulding is the same as fig. 4 c c,
including only the midmost of the three rolls in fig. 1.
It will be noticed that 2, 5, 6, and 8 are sculptured on the
soffits as well as the faces ; 9 is the common profile of arches
decorated only with colored marble, the facestone being colored,
the soffit white. The effect of such a moulding is seen in the
small windows at the right hand of Fig. XXVI. Vol. II.
The reader will now see that there is but little difficulty in
identifying Byzantine work, the archivolt mouldings being so
similar among themselves, and so unlike any others. We have
next to examine the Gothic forms.
Figs. 13 and 14 in Plate VIII. represent the first brick
mouldings of the transitional period, occurring in such instances
as Fig. XXIII. or Fig. XXXIII. Vol. II. (the soffit stone of the
Byzantine mouldings being taken away), and this profile, trans-
lated into solid stone, forms the almost universal moulding of
the windows of the second order. These two brick mouldings
are repeated, for the sake of comparison, at the top of Plate IX.
opposite ; and the upper range of mouldings which they com-
mence, in that plate, are the brick mouldings of Venice in the
early Gothic period. All the forms below are in stone ; and the
moulding 2, translated into stone, forms the universal archivolt
of the early pointed arches of Venice, and windows of second
and third orders. The moulding 1 is much rarer, and used for
the most part in doors only.
The reader will see at once the resemblance of character in
the various flat brick mouldings, 3 to 11. They belong to such
arches as 1 and 2 in Plate XVII. Vol. II. ; or 6 b, 6 c, in Plate
XIV. Vol. II., 7 and 8 being actually the mouldings of those
two doors ; the whole group being perfectly defined, and sepa-
rate from all the other Gothic work in Venice, and clearly the
result of an effort to imitate, in brickwork, the effect of the flat
$46 10. FINAL APPENDIX. IV. AUCHIVOLTS.
sculptured archi volts of the Byzantine times. (See Vol. II.
Chap. VII. § xxxvu.)
Then comes the group 14 to 18 in stone, derived from the
mouldings 1 and 2; first by truncation, 14; then by beading
the truncated angle, 15, 16. The occurrence of the profile 16
in the three beautiful windows represented in the uppermost
figure of Plate XVIII. Vol. I. renders that group of peculiar
interest, and is strong evidence of its antiquity. Then a cavetto
is added, 17; first shallow and then deeper, 18, which is the
common archivolt moulding of the central Gothic door and win-
dow : but, in the windows of the early fourth order, this mould-
ing is complicated by various additions of dog-tooth mouldings
under the dentil, as in 20; or the gabled dentil (see fig. 20, Plate
IX. Vol. I.), as fig. 21; or both, as figs 23, 24. All these varie-
ties expire in the advanced period, and the established mould-
ing for windows is 29. The intermediate group, 25 to 28, I
found only in the high windows of the third order in the Ducal
Palace, or in the Chapter-house of the Frari, or in the arcades of
the Ducal Palace; the great outside lower arcade of the Ducal
Palace has the profile 31, the left-hand side being the inner-
most.
Now observe, all these archivolts, without exception, assume
that the spectator looks from the outside only: none are complete
on both sides; they are essentially window mouldings, and have
no resemblance to those of our perfect Gothic arches prepared for
traceries. If they were all completely drawn in the plate, they
should be as fig. 25, having a great depth of wall behind the
mouldings, but it was useless to represent this in every case.
The Ducal Palace begins to show mouldings on both sides, 28, 31;
and 35 is a complete arch moulding from the apse of the Frari.
That moulding, though so perfectly developed, is earlier than the
Ducal Palace, and with other features of the building, indicates
the completeness of the* Gothic system, which made the archi-
tect of the Ducal Palace found his work principally upon that
church.
The other examples in this plate show the various modes of
combination employed in richer archivolts. The triple change
of slope in 38 is very curious. The references are as follows :
iV. AKCntVOLTS.
10. FIKAL APPENDIX. 247
1. Transitional to the second order.
2. Common second order.
3. Brick, at Corte del Forno, Round arch.
4. Door at San Giovanni Grisostomo.
5. Door at Sotto Portico della Stua.
6. Door in Oampo St. Luca, of rich brickwork.
7. Round door at Fondamenta Venier.
8. Pointed door. Fig. 6 c, Plate XIV. Vol. II.
9. Great pointed arch, Salizzada San Lio.
10. Round door near Fondaco de' Turchi.
11. Door with Lion, at Ponte della Corona.
12. San Gregorio, Fa§ade.
13. St. John and Paul, Nave.
14. Rare early fourth order, at San Cassan.
15. General early Gothic archivolt.
PLATE IX. m $arne> from door in Rio San G. Grisostomo.
Vol. III. yittura>
18. Casa Sagredo, Unique thirds. Vol. II.
19. Murano Palace, Unique fourths.*
20. Pointed door of Four-Evangelist House, f
21. Keystone door in Campo St. M. Formosa.
22. Rare fourths, at St. Pantaleon.
23. Rare fourths, Casa Papadopoli.
24. Rare fourths, Chess house. \
25. Thirds of Frari Cloister.
26. Great pointed arch of Frari Cloister.
27. Unique thirds, Ducal Palace.
28. Inner Cortile, pointed arches, Ducal Palace.
29. Common fourth and fifth order Archivolt.
30. Unique thirds, Ducal Palace.
31. Ducal Palace, lower arcade.
* Close to the bridge over the main channel through Murano is a mas-
sive foursquare Gothic palace, containing some curious traceries, and many
unique transitional forms of window, among which these windows of the
fourth order occur, with a roll within their dentil band.
f Thus, for the sake of convenience, we may generally call the palace
with the emblems of the Evangelists on its spandrils, Vol. II.
\ The house with chequers like a chess-board on its spandrils, given, in
my folio work.
248 10. FINAL APPENDIX. V. CORNICES
32. Casa Priuli, arches in the inner court.
33. Circle above the central window, Ducal Palace.
34. Murano apse.
35. Acute-pointed arch, Frari.
PLATE IX. 36. Door of Accademia delle belle Arti.
Vol. III. 37. Door in Calle Tiossi, near Four-Evangelist House.
38. Door in Campo San Polo.
39. Door of palace at Ponte Marcello.
40. Door of a palace close to the Church of the Mira-
coli.
F. Cornices.
Plate X. represents, in one view, the cornices or string-
courses of Venice, and the abaci of its capitals, early and late ;
these two features being inseparably connected, as explained in
Vol. I.
The evidence given by these mouldings is exceedingly clear.
The two upper lines in the Plate, 1 — 11, 13 — 24, are all plinths
from Byzantine buildings. The reader will at once observe
their unmistakable resemblances. The row 41 to 50 are contem-
porary abaci of capitals ; 52, 53, 54, 56, are examples of late
Gothic abaci ; and observe, especially, these are all rounded at
the top of the cavetto, but the Byzantine abaci are rounded, if
at all, at the bottom of the cavetto (see 7, 8, 9, 10, 20, 28, 46).
Consider what a valuable test of date this is, in any disputable
building.
Again, compare 28, 29, one from St. Mart's, the other from
the Ducal Palace, and observe the close resemblance, giving far-
ther evidence of early date in the palace.
25 and 50 are drawn to the same scale. The former is the
wall-cornice, the latter the abacus of the great shafts, in the
Casa Loredan ; the one passing into the other, as seen in Fig.
ZXVIII. Vol. I. It is curious to watch the change in propor-
tion, while the moulding, all but the lower roll, remains the
same.
The following are the references:
PLATE X. 1. Common plinth of St. Mark's.
Vol. III. 2. Plinth above lily capitals, St. Mark's.
T. CORNICES. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. . 24:9
3, 4. Plinths in early surface Gothic.
5. Plinth of door in Campo St. Luca.
6. Plinth of treasury door, St. Mark's.
7. Archivolts of nave, St. Mark's.
8. Archivolts of treasury door, St. Mark's.
9. Moulding of circular window in St. John and
Paul.
10. Chief decorated -narrow plinth, St. Mark's.
11. Plinth of door, Campo St. Margherita.
12. Plinth of tomb of Doge Vital Falier.
13. Lower plinth, Fondaco de' Turchi, and Terraced
House.
14. Running plinth of Corte del Remer.
15. Highest plinth at top of Fondaco de' Turchi
16. Common Byzantine plinth.
17. Running plinth of Casa Falier ,
18. Plinth of arch at Ponte St. Toma.
19. 20, 21. Plinths of tomb of Doge Vital Falier.
PLATE X. 22. Plinth of window in Calle del Pistor.
Vol. III. 23. Plinth of tomb of Dogaressa Vital Michele.
24. Archivolt in the Frari.
25. Running plinth, Casa Loredan.
26. Running plinth, under pointed arch, in Salizzadf
San Lio.
27. Running plinth, Casa Erizzo.
28. Circles in portico of St. Mark's.
29. Ducal Palace cornice, lower arcade.
30. Ducal Palace cornice, upper arcade.
31. Central Gothic plinth.
32. Late Gothic plinth.
33. Late Gothic plinth, Casa degli Ambasciatori»
34. Late Gothic plinth, Palace near the Jesuiti.
35. 36. Central balcony cornice.
37. Plinth of St. Mark's balustrade.
38. Cornice of the Frari, in brick, cabled.
39. Central balcony plinth.
40. Uppermost cornice, Ducal Palace.
41. Abacus of lily capitals, St. Mark's.
42. Abacus, Fondaco de' Turchi,
250 10. FINAL APPENDIX. vi TRACEUIE&
43. Abacus, large capital of Terraced House.
44. Abacus, Fondaco de' Turchi.
45. Abacus, Ducal Palace, upper arcade.
46. Abacus, Corte del Eemer.
47. Abacus, small pillars, St. Mark's pulpit.
48. Abacus, Murano and Torcello.
49. Abacus, Casa Farsetti.
PLATE X. 50. Abacus, Casa Loredan, lower story.
Vol. III. 51. Abacus, capitals of Frari.
52. Abacus, Casa Cavalli (plain).
53. Abacus, Casa Priuli (flowered).
54. Abacus, Casa Foscari (plain).
55. Abacus, Casa Priuli (flowered).
56. Abacus, Plate II. fig. 15.
57. Abacus, St. John and Paul.
58. Abacus, St. Stefano.
It is only farther to be noted, that these mouldings are used
in various proportions, for all kinds of purposes: sometimes for
true cornices; sometimes for window-sills; sometimes, 3 and 4
(in the Gothic time) especially, for dripstones of gables: 11 and
such others form little plinths or abaci at the spring of arches,
such as those shown at a, Fig. XXIII. Vol. II. Finally, a large
number of superb Byzantine cornices occur, of the form shown
at the top of the arch in Plate V. Vol. II. , having a profile like
16 or 19 here; with nodding leaves of acanthus thrown out
from it, being, in fact, merely one range of the leaves of a By-
zantine capital unwrapped, and formed into a continuous line.
I had prepared a large mass of materials for the illustration of
these cornices, and the Gothic ones connected with them; but
found the subject would take up another volume, and was forced,
for the present, to abandon it. The lower series of profiles, 7
to 12 in Plate XV. Vol. J., shows how the leaf-ornament is laid
on the simple early cornices.
/
VI. Traceries.
TVe have only one subject more to examine, the character of
the early and late Tracery Bars.
VI. TRACERIES.
10. FINAL APPENDIX. 251
The reader may perhaps have been surprised at the small at-
tention given to traceries in the course of the preceding volumes:
but the reason is, that there are no complicated traceries at Ven-
ice belonging to the good Gothic time, with the single exception
of those of the Casa Cicogna; and the magnificent arcades of the
Ducal Palace Gothic are so simple as to require little explana-
tion.
There are, however, two curious circumstances in the later
traceries; the first, that they are universally considered by the
builder (as the old Byzantines considered sculptured surfaces of
stone) as material out of which a certain portion is to be cut, to
fill his window. A fine Northern Gothic tracery is a complete
and systematic arrangement of arches and foliation, adjusted to
the form of the window; but a Venetian tracery is a piece of a
larger composition, cut to the shape of the window. In the
Porta della Carta, in the Church of the Madonna dell' Orto, in
the Casa Bernardo on the Grand Canal, in the old Church of the
Misericordia, and wherever else there are rich traceries in Venice,
it will always be found that a certain arrangement of quatrefoils
and other figures has been planned as if it were to extend indefi-
nitely into miles of arcade; and out of this colossal piece of marble
lace, a piece in the shape of a window is cut, mercilessly and
fearlessly: whatever fragments and odd shapes of interstice,
remnants of this or that figure of the divided foliation, may oc-
cur at the edge of the window, it matters not; 'all are cut across,
and shut in by the great outer archivolt.
It is very curious to find the Venetians treating what in other
countries became of so great individual importance, merely as a
kind of diaper ground, like that of their chequered colors on the
walls. There is great grandeur in the idea, though the system
of their traceries was spoilt by it; but they always treated their
buildings as masses of color rather than of line; and the great
traceries of the Ducal Palace itself are not spared any more than
those of the minor palaces. They are cut off at the flanks in the
middle of the quatrefoils, and the terminal mouldings take up
part of the breadth of the poor half of a quatrefoil at the ex-
. tremity.
One other circumstance is notable also. In good Northern
Gothic the tracery bars are of a constant profile, the same on
252 10. FINAL APPENDIX.
VI. TRACERIES.
both sides; and if the plan of the tracery leaves any interstices
so small that there is not room for the full profile of the tracery
bar all round them, those interstices are entirely closed, the
tracery bars being supposed to have met each other. But in
Venice, if an interstice becomes anywhere inconveniently small,
the tracery bar is sacrificed; cut away, or in some way altered in
profile, in order to afford more room for the. light, especially in
the early traceries, so that one side of a tracery bar is often
quite different from the other. For instance, in the bars. 1 and
2, Plate XL, from the Frari and St. John and Paul, the upper-
most side is toAvards a great opening, and there was room for the
bevel or slope to the cusp; but in the other side the opening was
too small, and the bar falls vertically to the cusp. In 5 the up-
permost side is to the narrow aperture, and the lower to the small
one; and in fig. 9, from the Casa Cicogna, the uppermost side
is to the apertures of the tracery, the lowermost to the arches
beneath, the great roll following the design of the tracery; while
13 and 14 are left without the roll at the base of their cavettos
on the uppermost sides, which are turned to narrow apertures.
The earliness of the Casa Cicogna tracery is seen in a moment
by its being moulded on the face only. It is in fact nothing
more than a series of quatrefoiled apertures in the solid wall of
the house, with mouldings on their faces, and magnificent arches
of pure pointed fifth order sustaining them below.
The following are the references to the figures in the plate:
1. Frari.
2. Apse, St. John and Paul.
3. Frari.
4. Ducal Palace, inner court, upper window.
5. Madonna dell' Orto.
6. St. John and Paul.
PLATE XL 7. Casa Bernardo.
Vol. III. 8. Casa Contarini Fasan.
9. Casa Cicogna.
10. 11. Frari.
12. Murano Palace (see note, p. 265).
13. Misericordia.
VI. TKACEIUES.
10. FINAL APPENDIX. 253
14. Palace of the younger Foscari.*
15. Casa d' Oro ; great single windows.
16. Hotel Danieli.
17. Ducal Palace.
18. Casa Erizzo, on Grand Canal.
19. Main story, Casa Cavalli.
PLATE XL 20. Younger Foscari.
Vol. III. 21. Ducal Palace, traceried windows.
22. Porta della Carta.
23. Casa d' Oro.
24. Casa d'Oro, upper story.
25. Casa Facanon.
26. Casa Cavalli, near Post-Office.
It will be seen at a glance that, except in the very early fillet
traceries of the Frari and St. John and Paul, Venetian work
consists of roll traceries of one general pattern. It will be seen
also, that 10 and 11 from the Frari, furnish the first examples of
the form afterwards completely developed in 17, the tracery bar
of the Ducal Palace ; but that this bar differs from them in
greater strength and squareness, and in adding a recess between
its smaller roll and the cusp. Observe, that this is done for
strength chiefly ; as, in the contemporary tracery (21) of the
upper windows, no such additional thickness is used.
Figure 17 is slightly inaccurate. The little curved recesses
behind the smaller roll are not equal on each side ; that next the
cusp is smallest, being about f of an inch, while that next the
cavetto is about £ ; to such an extent of subtlety did the old
builders carry their love of change.
The return of the cavetto in 21, 23, and 26, is comparatively
rare, and is generally a sign of later date.
The reader must observe that the great sturdiness of the form
of the bars, 5, 9, 17, 24, 25, is a consequence of the peculiar
office of Venetian traceries in supporting the mass of the build-
ing above, already noticed in Vol. II. ; and indeed the forms of
* The palace next the Casa Foscari, on the Grand Canal, sometimes said
to have belonged to the son of the Doge.
254
10. FINAL APPENDIX.
VI. TUACEUIEa
Fig. n.
the Venetian Gothic are, in many other ways, influenced by
the difficulty of obtaining stability on sandy foundations. One
thing is especially noticeable in all their arrangements of
traceries; namely, the endeavor to ob-
tain equal and horizontal pressure
along the whole breadth of the build-
ing, not the divided- and local pres-
sures of Northern Gothic. This ob-
ject is considerably aided by the
structure of the balconies, which are
of great service in knitting the shafts
together, forming complete tie-beams
of marble, as well as a kind of rivets,
at their bases. For instance, at J,
Fig. II., is represented the masonry
of the base of the upper arcade of the
Ducal Palace, showing the root of
one of its main shafts, with the bind-
ing balconies. The solid stones,
which form the foundation are much
broader than the balcony shafts, so
that the socketed arrangement is not
seen : it is shown as it would appear
in a longitudinal section. The bal-
conies are not let into the circular
but fitted to their circular
curves, so as to grasp them, and riveted with metal ; and the
bars of stone which form the tops of the balconies are of great
Fig- ™. strength and depth, the
small trefoiled arches be-
ing cut out of them as in
I Fig. III., so as hardly to
diminish their binding
power. In the lighter in-
dependent balconies they
are often cut deeper ; but
in all cases the bar of stone
is nearly independent of the small shafts placed beneath it, and
would stand firm though these were removed, as at a, Fig.
CUSPS.
10. FINAL APPENDIX.
255
supported either by the main shafts of the traceries, or by its
own small pilasters with semi-shafts at their sides, of the plan
d, Fig. II. , in a continuous balcony, and e at the angle of one.
There is one more very curious circumstance illustrative of
the Venetian desire to obtain horizontal pressure. In all the
Gothic staircases with which I am acquainted, out of Venice, in
which vertical shafts are used to support an inclined line, those
shafts are connected by arches rising each above the other, with
a little bracket above the capitals, on the side where it is neces-
sary to raise the arch ; or else, though less gracefully, with a
longer curve to the lowest side of the arch.
But the Venetians seem to have had a morbid horror of
arches which were not on a level. They could not endure the
appearance of the roof of one arch bearing against the side of
another ; and rather than introduce the idea of obliquity into
bearing curves, they abandoned the arch principle altogether ; so
that even in their richest Gothic staircases, where trefoiled
arches, exquisitely decorated, are used on the landings, they ran
the shafts on the sloping stair simply into the bar of stone above
them, and used the excessively ugly and valueless arrangement
of Fig. II., rather than sacrifice the sacred horizontally of their
arch system.
It will be noted, in Plate XL, that the form and character of
the tracery bars themselves are independent of the position or
projection of the cusps on their flat sides. In this respect, also,
Fig. IV.
2345
Venetian traceries are peculiar, the example 22 of the Porta della
Carta being the only one in the plate which is subordinated ac-
10. FIXAL APPENDIX.
CUSPS.
cording to the Northern system. In every other case the form
of the aperture is determined, either by a flat and solid cusp as
in 6, or by a pierced cusp as in 4. The effect of the pierced
cusp is seen in the uppermost figure, Plate XVIII. Vol. II. ; and
its derivation from the solid cusp will be understood, at once,
from the woodcut Fig. IV., which represents a series of the
flanking stones of any arch of the fifth order, such as /in Plate
III. Vol. I.
The first on the left shows the condition of cusp in a per-
fectly simple and early Gothic arch, 2 and 3 are those of common
arches of the fifth order, 4 is the condition in more studied ex-
amples of the G-othic advanced guard, and 5 connects them all
with the system of traceries. Introducing the common archivolt
mouldings on the projecting edge of 2 and 3, we obtain the bold
and deep fifth order window, used down to the close of the four-
teenth century or even later, and always grand in its depth of
cusp, and consequently of shadow ; but ^s- v.
the narrow cusp 4 occurs also in very
early work, and is piquant when set be-
neath a bold flat archivolt, as in Fig.
V., from the Corte del Forno at Santa
Marina. The pierced cusp gives a pe-
culiar lightness and brilliancy to the
window, but is not so sublime. In the
richer buildings the surface of the flat
and solid cusp is decorated with a shal-
low trefoil (see Plate VIII. Vol. I.), or,
when the cusp is small, with a triangu-
lar incision only, as seen in figs. 7 and 8, Plate XL The recesses
on the sides of the other cusps indicate their single or double
lines of foliation. The cusp of the Ducal Palace has a fillet only
round its edge, and a ball of red marble on its truncated point,
and is perfect in its grand simplicity ; but in general the cusps
of Venice are far inferior to those of Verona and of the other
cities of Italy, chiefly because there was always some confusioi
in the mind of the designer between true cusps and the mei
bending inwards of the arch of the fourth order. The two s«
ries, 4 a to 4 e, and 5 a to' 5 e, in Plate XIV. Vol. II., are
arranged so as to show this connexion, as well as the varieties of
CUSPS. 10. FINAL APPEHDIX. 257
curvature in the trefoiled arches of the fourth and fifth orders,
which, though apparently slight on so small a scale, are of enor-
mous importance in distant effect ; a house in which the joints
of the cusps project as much as in 5 c, being quite piquant and
grotesque when compared with one in which the cusps are sub-
dued to the form 5 b. 4 d and 4 e are Veronese forms, wonder-
'< fully effective and spirited ; the latter occurs at Verona only, but
the former at Venice also. 5 d occurs in Venice, but is very
rare ; and 5 el found only once, on the narrow canal close to
the entrance door of the Hotel Danieli. It was partly walled up,
but I obtained leave to take down the brickwork and lay open
one side of the arch, which may still be seen.
The above particulars are enough to enable the reader to
judge of the distinctness of evidence which the details of Vene-
tian architecture bear to its dates. Farther explanation of the
plates would be vainly tedious : but the architect who uses these
volumes in Venice will find them of value, in enabling him
instantly to class the mouldings which may interest him ; and
for this reason I have given a larger number of examples thaa
would otherwise have been sufficient for my purpose.
INDICES.
I. PERSONAL INDEX.
II. LOCAL INDEX.
III. TOPICAL INDEX.
IV. VENETIAN INDEX.
THE first of the following Indices contains the names of
persons; the second those of places (not in Venice) alluded to in
the body of the work. The third Index consists of references to
the subjects touched upon. In the fourth, called the Venetian
Index, I have named every building of importance in the city of
Venice itself, or near it; supplying, for the convenience of the
traveller, short notices of those to which I had no occasion to
allude in the text of the work; and making the whole as com-
plete a guide as I could, with such added directions as I should
have given to any private friend visiting the city. As, however,
in many cases, the opinions I have expressed differ widely from
those usually received; and, in other instances, subjects which
may be of much interest to the traveller have not come within
the scope of my inquiry; the reader had better take Lazari's
small Guide in his hand also, as he will find in it both the infor-
mation I have been unable to furnish, and the expression of most
of the received opinions upon any subject of art.
Various inconsistencies will be noticed in the manner of in-
dicating the buildings, some being named in Italian, some in
English, and some half in one, and half in the other. But these
inconsistencies are permitted in order to save trouble, and make
the Index more practically useful. For instance, I believe the
traveller will generally look for " Mark," rather than for "Marco,"
when he wishes to find the reference to St. Mark's Church; but
I think he will look for Eocco, rather than for Roch, when he is
Becking for the account of the Scuola di San Rocco. So also I
have altered the character in which the titles of the plates are
260 EXPLANATOKY
printed, from the black letter in the first volume, to the plain
Eoman in the second and third; finding experimentally that the
former character was not easily legible, and conceiving that the
book would be none the worse for this practical illustration of its
own principles, in a daring sacrifice of symmetry to convenience.
These alphabetical Indices will, however, be of little use, unless
another, and a very different kind of Index, be arranged in the
mind of the reader; an Index explanatory of the principal pur-
poses and contents of the various parts of this essay. It is diffi-
cult to analyze the nature of the reluctance with which either a
writer or painter takes it upon him to explain the meaning of his
own work, even in cases where, without such explanation, it
must in a measure remain always disputable: but I am persuaded
that this reluctance is, in most instances, carried too far; and
that, wherever there really is a serious purpose in a book or a
picture, the author does wrong who, either in modesty or vanity
(both feelings have their share in producing the dislike of per-
sonal interpretation), trusts entirely to the patience and intelli-
gence of the readers or spectators to penetrate into their signifi-
cance. At all events, I will, as far as possible, spare such trouble
with respect to these volumes, by stating here, finally and clearly,
both what they intend and what they contain; and this the
rather because I have lately noticed, with some surprise, certain
reviewers announcing as a discovery, what I thought had lain
palpably on the surface of the book, namely, that " if Mr. Bus-
kin be right, all the architects, and all the architectural teaching
of the last three hundred years, must have been wrong." That
is indeed precisely the fact; and the very thing I meant to say,
which indeed I thought I had said over and over again. I be-
lieve the architects of the last three centuries to have been wrong;
wrong without exception; wrong totally, and from the founda-
tion. This is exactly the point I have been endeavoring to prove,
from the beginning of this work to the end of it. But as it
seems not yet to have been stated clearly enough, I will here try
to put my entire theorem into an unmistakable form.
The various nations who attained eminence in the arts before
the time of Christ, each of them, produced forms of architectui
which in their various degrees of merit were almost exactly in-
dicative of the degrees of intellectual and moral energy of the
EXPLANATORY NOTE. 2G1
nations which originated them; and each reached its greatest
perfection at the time when the true energy and prosperity of the
people who had invented it were at their culminating point.
Many of these various styles of architecture were good, consid-
ered in relation to the times and races which gave birth to them;
but none were absolutely good or perfect, or fitted for the prac-
tice of all future time.
The advent of Christianity for the first time rendered possible
the full development of the soul of man, and therefore the full
development of the arts of man.
Christianity gave birth to a new architecture, not only im-
measurably superior to all that had preceded it, but demonstrably
the best architecture that can exist; perfect in construction and
decoration, and fit for the practice of all time.
This architecture, commonly called " Gothic," though in
conception perfect, like the theory of a Christian character,
never reached an actual perfection, having been retarded and
corrupted by various adverse influences; but it reached its high-
est perfection, hitherto manifested, about the close of the thir-
teenth century, being then indicative of a peculiar energy in the
Christian mind of Europe.
In the course of the fifteenth century, owing to various causes
which I have endeavored to trace in the preceding pages, the
Christianity of Europe was undermined; and a Pagan architec-
ture was introduced, in imitation of that of the Greeks and
Komans.
The architecture of the Greeks and Romans themselves was
not good, but it was natural; and, as I said before, good in some
respects, and for a particular time.
But the imitative architecture introduced first in the fifteenth
century, and practised ever since, was neither good nor natural.
It was good in no respect, and for no time. All the architects
who have built in that style have built what was worthless; and
therefore the greater part of the architecture which has been
built for the last three hundred years, and which we are now
building, is worthless. We must give up this style totally, despise
it and forget it, and build henceforward only in that perfect and
Christian style hitherto called Gothic, which is everlastingly the
best.
2G2 EXPLANATORY .NOTE.
This is the theorem of these volumes.
In support of this theorem, the first volume contains, in its
first chapter, a sketch of the actual history of Christian archi-
tecture, up to the period of the Reformation; and, in the subse-
quent chapters, an analysis of the entire system of the laws of
architectural construction and decoration, deducing from those
laws positive conclusions as to the best forms and manners of
building for all time.
The second volume contains, in its first five chapters, an ac-
count of one of the most important and least known forms of
Christian architecture, as exhibited in Venice, together with an
analysis of its nature in the fourth chapter; and, which is a pecu-
liarly important part of this section, an account of the power of
color over the human mind.
The sixth chapter of the second volume contains an analysis
of the nature of Gothic architecture, properly so called, and
shows that in its external form it complies precisely with the
abstract laws of structure and beauty, investigated in the first
volume. The seventh and eighth chapters of the second volume
illustrate the nature of Gothic architecture by various Venetian
examples. The third volume investigates, in its first chapter,
the causes and manner of the corruption of Gothic architecture;
in its second chapter, defines the nature of the Pagan architec-
ture which superseded it; in the third chapter, shows the con-
nexion of that Pagan architecture with the various characters oi
mind which brought about the destruction of the Venetian
nation; and, in the fourth chapter, points out the dangerous
tendencies in the modern mind which the practice of such an
architecture indicates.
Such is the intention of the preceding pages, which I hope
will no more be doubted or mistaken. As far as regards the
manner of its fulfilment, though I hope, in the course of other
inquiries, to add much to the elucidation of the points in dispute,
I cannot feel it necessary to apologize for the imperfect handling
of a subject which the labor of a long life, had I been able to
bestow it, must still have left imperfectly treated.
1
PEESONAL II^DEX.
A
Alberti, Duccio degli, his tomb, iii. 74, 80.
Alexander III., his defence by Venetians, i. 7.
Ambrose, St., his verbal subtleties, ii. 320.
Angelico, Fra, artistical power of, i. 400 ; his influence on Protes-
tants, ii. 105 ; his coloring, ii. 145.
Aristotle, his evil influence on the modern mind, ii. 319.
Averulinus, his book on architecture, iii. 63.
B
Barbaro, monuments of the family, iii. 125.
Barbarossa, Emperor, i. 7, 9.
Baseggio, Pietro, iii. 199.
Bellini, John, i. 11 ; his kindness to Albert Durer, i. 383 ;
general power of, see Venetian Index, under head " Gio-
vanni Grisostomo ;" Gentile, his brother, iii. 21.
Berti, Bellincion, ii. 263.
Browning, Elizabeth B., her poetry, ii. 206.
Bunsen, Chevalier, his work on Komanesque Churches, ii. 381.
Bunyan, John, his portraiture of constancy, ii. 333 ; of patience,
ii. 334 ; of vanity, ii. 346 ; of sin, iii. 147.
C
Calendario, Filippo, iii. 199.
Canaletto, i. 24 ; and see Venetian Index under head "Carita."
Canova, i. 217 ; and see Venetian Index under head " Frari."
Cuppello, Vincenzo, his tomb, iii. 122.
Caracci, school of the, i. 24.
2G4 I. I'KIJSOXAL IXDEX.
Csiry, his translation of Dante, ii. 264.
Cavalli, Jacopo, his tomb, ni. 82.
Cicero, influence of his philosophy, ii. 317, 318.
Claude Lorraine, i. 24.
Comnenus, Manuel, ii. 263.
Cornaro, Marco, his tomb, iii. 79.
Correggio, ii. 192.
Crabbe, naturalism in his poetry, ii. 195.
D
Dandolo, Andrea, tomb of, ii. 70 ; Francesco, tomb of, iii. 74 ;
character of, iii. 76 ; Simon, tomb of, iii. 79,
Dante, his central position, ii. 340, iii. 158 ; his system of vir-
tue, ii. 323 ; his portraiture of sin, iii. 147.
Daru, his character as a historian, iii. 213.
Dolci, Carlo, ii. 105.
Dolfino, Giovanni, tomb of, iii. 78.
Durer, Albert, his rank as a landscape painter, i. 383 ; his
power in grotesque, iii. 145.
E
Edwin, King, his conversion, iii. 62.
F
Faliero, Bertuccio, his tomb, iii. 94 ; Marino, his house, ii.
254 ; -Vitale, miracle in his time, ii. 61.
Fergusson, James, his system of beauty, i. 388.
Foscari, Francesco, his reign, i. 4, iii. 165 ; his tomb, iii. 84 ;
his countenance, iii. 86.
G
Garbett, answer to Mr., i. 403.
Ghiberti, his sculpture, i. 217.
Giotto, his system of the virtues, ii. 323, 329, 341; his rank as
a painter, ii. 188, iii. 172.
Giulio Romano, i. 23.
Giustiniani, Marco, his tomb, i. 315 ; Sebastian, ambassador to
England, iii. 224.
Godfrey of Bouillon, his piety, iii. 62.
Gozzoli, Benozzo, ii. 195.
I. PERSONAL INDEX. 205
Gradenigo, Pietro, ii. 290.
Grande, Can, della Scala, his tomb, i. 268 (the cornice g in
Plate XVI. is taken from it), iii. 71.
Guariento, his Paradise, ii. 296.
Guercino, ii. 105.
H
Hamilton, Colonel, his paper on the Serapeum, ii. 220.
Hobbima, iii. 184.
Hunt, William, his painting of peasant boys, ii. 192 ; of still
life, ii. 394.
Hunt, William Holman, relation of his works to modern and
ancient art, iii. 185.
K
Knight, Gaily, his work on Architecture, i. 378.
L : . ,.•:•„,- -,:
Leonardo da Vinci, ii. 171.
Louis XL, iii. 194.
M
Martin, John, ii. 104.
Mastino, Can, della Scala, his tomb, ii. 224, iii. 72.
Maynard, Miss, her poems, ii. 397.
Michael Angelo, ii. 134, 188, iii. 56, 90, 99, 158.
Millais, John E., relation of his works to older art, iii. 185;
aerial perspective in his " Huguenot," iii. 47.
Milton, how inferior to Dante, iii. 147.
Mocenigo, Tomaso, his character, i. 4 ; his speech on rebuilding
the Ducal Palace, ii. 299; his tomb, i. 26, iii. 84.
Morosini, Carlo, Count, note on Daru's History by, iii. 213.
Morosini, Marino, his tomb, iii. 93.
Morosini, Michael, his chapacter, iii. 213; his tomb, iii. 80.
Murillo, his sensualism, ii. 192.
N
Napoleon, his genius in civil administration, i. 399.
Niccolo Pisano, i. 215.
0
Orcagna, his system of the virtues, ii. 329.
Orseolo, Pietro (Doge), iii. 120.
Otho the Great, his vow at Murano, ii. 32.
266 I. PEESONAL INDEX.
P
Palladio, i. 24, 146 ; and see Venetian Index, under head
" Giorgio Maggiore."
Participazio, Angelo, founds the Ducal Palace, ii. 287.
i Pesaro, Giovanni, tomb of, iii. 92 ; Jacopo, tomb of, iii. 91.
Philippe de Commynes, i. 12.
Plato, influence of his philosophy, ii. 317, 338 ; his playfulness,
iii. 127.
Poussin, Nicolo and Gaspar, i. 23.
Procaccini, Camillo, ii. 188.
Prout, Samuel, his style, i. 250, iii. 19, 134.
Pugin, Welby, his rank as an architect, i. 385.
Q
Querini, Marco, his palace, ii. 255.
K
Kaffaelle, ii. 188, iii. 56, 108, 136.
Keynolds, Sir J., his painting at New College, ii. 323 ; his
general manner, iii. 184.
Rogers, Samuel, his works, ii. 195, iii. 113.
Kubens, intellectual rank of, i. 400 ; coarseness of, ii. 145.
S
Salvator Rosa, i. 24, ii. 105, 145, 188.
Scaligeri, tombs of, at Verona; see "Grande," "Mastino,"
" Signorio;" palace of, ii. 257.
Scott, Sir W., his feelings of romance, iii. 191.
Shakspeare, his " Seven Ages," whence derived, ii. 361.
Sharpe, Edmund, his works, i. 342, 408.
Signorio, Can, della Scala, his tomb, character, i. 268, iii. 73.
Simplicius, St., ii. 356.
Spenser, value of his philosophy, ii. 327, 341 ; his personifications
of the months, ii. 272; his system of the virtues, ii. 326;
scheme of the first book of the Faerie Queen, iii. 205.
Steno, Michael, ii. 306; his tomb, ii. 296.
Stothard (the painter), his works, ii. 187, 195.
Symmachus, St., ii. 357.
I. PERSONAL INDEX. . ' 2G7
T
Terriers, David, ii. 188.
Tiepolo, Jacopo and Lorenzo, their tombs, iii. 69 ; Bajamonte,
ii. 255.
Tintoret, i. 12 ; his genius and function, ii. 149 ; his Paradise,
ii. 304, 372 ; his rank among the men of Italy, iii. 158.
Titian, i. 12; his function and fall, ii. 149, 187.
Turner, his rank as a landscape painter, i. 382, ii. 187.
U
Uguccione, Benedetto, destroys Giotto's fagade at Florence, i.
197.
V
Vendramin, Andrea (Doge), his tomb, i. 27, iii. 88.
Verocchio, Andrea, iii. 11, 13.
Veronese. Paul, artistical rank o£, i. 400; his designs of balus-
trades, ii. 247 ; and see in Venetian Index, " Ducal Palace,"
"Pisani," "Sebastian," "Kedentore," "Accademia."
W
West, Benjamin, ii. 104.
Wordsworth, his observation of nature, i. 247 (note).
Z
Zeno, Carlo, i. 4, iii. 80.
Ziani, Sebastian (Doge), builds Ducal Palace, ii. 289.
IL
LOCAL INDEX.
A
Abbeville, door of church at, ii. 225; parapet at, ii. 245.
Alexandria, Church at, i. 381.
Alhambra, ornamentation of, i. 429.
Alps, how formed for distant effect, i. 247; how seen from Ven-
ice, ii, 2, 28.
Amiens, pillars of Cathedral at, i. 102.
Arqua, hills of, how seen from Venice, ii. 2.
Assisi, Giotto's paintings at, ii. 323.
B
Beauvais, piers of Cathedral at, i. 93 ; grandeur of its buttress
structure, i. 170.
Bergamo, Duomo at, i. 275.
Bologna, Palazzo Pepoli at, i. 275.
Bourges, Cathedral at, i. 43, 102, 228, 271, 299; ii. 92, 186;
house of Jacques Cosur at, i. 346.
C
Chamouni, glacier forms at, i. 222.
Como, Broletto of, i. 141, 339.
D
Dijon, pillars in Church of Notre Dame at, i. 102 ; tombs of
Dukes of Burgundy, iii. 68.
E
Edinburgh, college at, i. 207.
H. LOCAL INDEX. 209
F
Falaise (St. Gervaise at), piers of, i. 103.
Florence, Cathedral of, i. 197, iii. 13.
G
Gloucester, Cathedral of, i. 192.
L
Lombardy, geology of, ii. 5.
London, Church in Margaret Street, Portland Place, iii. 196;
Temple Church, i. 412; capitals in Belgrave and Grosvenor
Squares, i. 330; Bank of England, base of, i. 283; wall of,
typical of accounts, i. 295; statue in King William Street,
i. 210; shops in Oxford Street, i. 202; Arthur Club-house,
i. 295; Athenaeum Club-house, i. 157, 283; Duke of York's
Pillar, i. 283; Treasury, i. 205; Whitehall, i. 205; Westmin-
ster, fall of houses at, ii. 268; Monument, i. 82, 283; Nel-
son Pillar, i. 216; Wellington Statue, i. 257.
Lucca, Cathedral of, ii. 275; San Michele at, i. 375.
Lyons, porch of cathedral at, i. 379.
M
Matterhorn (Mont Cervin), structure of, i. 58; lines of, applied
to architecture, i. 308, 310, 332.
Mestre, scene in street of, i. 355.
Milan, St. Ambrogio, piers of, i. 102; capital of, i. 324; St. Eu-
stachio, tomb of St. Peter Martyr, i. 218.
Moulins, brickwork at, i. 296.
Murano, general aspect of, ii. 29; Duomo of, ii. 32; balustrades
of, ii. 247; inscriptions at, ii. 384.
N
Nineveh, style of its decorations, i. 234, 239; iii. 159.
0
Orange (South France), arch at, i. 250.
Orleans, Cathedral of, i. 95.
P
Padua, Arena chapel at, ii. 324; St. Antonio at, i. 135; St. Sofia
at, i. 327; Eremitani, Church of, at, i. 135.
270 II. LOCAL INDEX.
Paris, Hotel des Invalides, i. 214; Arc de 1'Etoile, i. 291 ; Co-
lonne Vendome, i. 212.
Pavia, St. Michele at, piers of, i. 102, 337; ornaments of, i. 376.
Pisa, Baptistery of, ii. 275.
Pistoja, San Pietro at, i. 295.
E
Eavenna, situation of, ii. 6.
Eouen, Cathedral, piers of, i. 103, 153; pinnacles of, ii. 213; St.
Maclou at, sculptures of, ii. 197.
S
Salisbury Cathedral, piers of, i. 102; windows at, ii. 224.
Sens, Cathedral of, i. 135.
Switzerland, cottage architecture of, i. 156, 203, iii. 133.
V
Verona, San Fermo at, i. 136, ii. 259 ; Sta. Anastasia at, i. 142;
Duomo of, i. 373; St. Zeno at, i. 373; balconies at, ii. 247;
archivolt at, i. 335 ; tombs at, see in Personal Index,
"Grande," "Mastino," "Signorio."
Vevay, architecture of, i. 136.
Vienne (South France), Cathedral of, i. 274.
W
Warwick, Guy's tower at, i. 168.
Wenlock (Shropshire), Abbey of, i. 270.
Winchester, Cathedral of, i. 192.
Y
York, Minster of, i. 205, 313.
m.
TOPICAL IITOEX.
Abacus, defined, i. 107 ; law of its proportion, i. 111-115 ; its
connection with cornices, i. 116; its various profiles, i. 319-
323; iii. 243-248.
Acanthus, leaf of, its use in architecture, i. 233; how treated at
Torcello, ii. 15.
Alabaster, use of, in incrustation, ii. 86.
Anachronism, necessity of, in the best art, ii. 198.
Anatomy, a disadvantageous study for artists, iii. 47.
Angels, use of their images in Venetian heraldry, ii. 278; statues
of, on the Ducal Palace, ii. 311.
Anger, how symbolically represented, ii. 344.
Angles, decoration of, i. 260; ii. 305; of Gothic Palacee, ii. 238;
of Ducal Palace, ii. 307.
Animal character in northern and southern climates, ii. 156; in
grotesque art, iii/ 149.
Apertures, analysis of their structure, i. 50 ; general forms of,
i. 174.
Apse, forms of, in southern and northern churches compared, i.
170.
Arabesques of Raffaelle, their baseness, iii. 130.
Arabian architecture, i. 18, 234, 235, 429; ii. 135.
Arches, general structure of, i. 122; moral characters of, i. 126 ;
lancet, round, and depressed, i. 129; four-centred, i. 130;
ogee, i. 131; non-concentric, i. 133, 341; masonry of, i. 133,
ii. 218; load of, i. 144; are not derived from vegetation, ii.
201.
'-J72 III. TOPICAL INDEX.
Architects, modern, their unfortunate position, i. 404, 407.
Architecture, general view of its divisions, i. 47-51 ; how to
judge of it, ii. 173; adaptation of, to requirements of hu-
man mind, iii. 192; richness of early domestic, ii. 100, iii.
2; manner of its debasement in general, iii. 3.
Archi volts, decoration of, i. 334; general families of, i. 335; of
Murano, ii. 49; of St. Mark's, ii. 95; in London, ii. 97; By-
zantine, ii. 138; profiles of, iii. 244.
Arts, relative dignity of, i. 395 ; how represented in Venetian
sculpture, ii. 355 ; what relation exists between them and
their materials, ii. 394; art divided into the art of facts, of
design, and of both, ii. 183; into purist, naturalist, and sen-
sualist, ii. 187 ; art opposed to inspiration, iii. 151 ; de-
fined, iii. 170 ; distinguished from science, iii. 35 ; how to
enjoy that of the ancients, iii. 188.
Aspiration, not the primal motive of Gothic work, i. 151.
Astrology, judicial, representation of its doctrines in Venetian
sculpture, ii. 352.
Austrian government in Italy, iii. 209.
Avarice, how represented figuratively, ii. 344.
B
Backgrounds, diapered, iii. 20.
Balconies, of Venice, ii. 243 ; general treatment of, iii. 254 ; of
iron, ii. 247.
Ballflower, its use in ornamentation, i. 279.
Balustrades. See "Balconies."
Bases, general account of, iii. 225; of walls, i. 55; of piers, i. 73;
of shafts, i. 84; decoration of, i. 281; faults of Gothic profiles
of, i. 285; spurs of, i. 286; beauty of, in St. Mark's, i. 290;
Lombardic, i. 292; 'ought not to be richly decorated, i. 292;
general effect of, ii. 387.
Battlements, i. 162; abuse of, in ornamentation, i. 219.
Beauty, and ornament, relation of the terms, i. 404.
Bellstones of capitals defined, i. 108.
Birds, use of in ornamentation, i. 234, ii. 140.
Bishops, their ancient authority, ii. 25.
Body, its relation to the soul, i. 41, 395.
Brackets, division of, i. 161;. ridiculous forms of, i. 161.
III. TOPICAL IHDEX. 273
Breadth in Byzantine design, ii. 133.
Brickwork, ornamental, i. 296; in general, ii. 241, 260, 261.
Brides of Venice, legend of the, iii. 113, 116.
Buttresses, general structure of, i. 166; flying, i. 192; supposed
sanctity of, i. 173.
Bull, symbolical use of, in representing rivers, i. 418, 421, 424.
Byzantine style, analysis of, ii. 75; ecclesiastical fitness of, ii. 97;
centralization in, ii. 236; palaces built in, ii. 118; sculptures
in, ii. 137, 140.
0
Candlemas, ancient symbols of, ii. 272.
Capitals, general structure of, i. 105; bells of, i. 107; just pro-
portions of, i. 114; various families of, i. 13, 65, 324, ii. 129,
iii. 231; are necessary to shafts in good architecture, i. 119;
Byzantine, ii. 131, iii. 231; Lily, of St. Mark's, ii. 137; of
Solomon's temple, ii. 137.
Care, how symbolized, ii. 348. See " Sorrow."
Caryatides, i. 302.
Castles, English, entrances of, i. 177.
Cathedrals, English, effect of, ii. 63.
Ceilings, old Venetian, ii. 280.
Centralization in design, ii. 237.
Chalet of Switzerland, its character, i. 203.
Chamfer defined, i. 263; varieties of, i. 262, 429.
Changefulness, an element of Gothic, ii. 172.
Charity, how symbolized, ii. 327, 339.
Chartreuse, Grande, morbid life in, iii. 190.
Chastity, how symbolized, ii. 328.
Cheerfulness, how symbolized, ii. 326, 348; virtue of, ii. 326.
Cherries, cultivation of, at Venice, ii. 361.
Christianity, how mingled with worldliness, iii. 109 ; how im-
perfectly understood, iii. 168 ; influence of, in liberating
workmen, ii. 159, i. 243; influence of, on forms, i. 99.
Churches, wooden, of the North, i. 381; considered as ships, ii.
25; decoration of, how far allowable, ii. 102.
Civilization, progress of, iii. 168; two-fold danger of, iii. 169.
Classical literature, its effect on the modern mind, iii. 12.
Climate, its influence on architecture, i. 151, ii. 155, 203.
274 III. TOPICAL IKDEX.
Color, its importance in early work, ii, 38, 40, 78, 91; its spiritu-
ality, ii. 145, 396; its relation to music, iii. 186; quartering
of, iii. 20; how excusing realization, iii. 186.
Commerce, how regarded by Venetians, i. 6.
Composition, definition of the term, ii. 182.
Constancy, how symbolized, ii. 333.
Construction, architectural, how admirable, i. 36.
Convenience, how consulted by Gothic architecture, ii. 179.
Cornices, general divisions of, i. 63, iii. 248; of walls, i. 60; of
roofs, i. 149; ornamentation of, i. 305; curvatures of, i. 310;
military, i. 160; Greek, i. 157.
Courses in walls, i. 60.
Crockets, their use in ornamentation, i. 346; their abuse at Ve-
nice, iii. 109.
Crosses, Byzantine, ii. 139.
Crusaders, character of the, ii. 263.
Crystals, architectural appliance of, i. 225.
Cupid, representation of, in early and later art, ii. 342.
Curvature, on what its beauty depends, i. 222, iii. 5.
Cusps, definition of, i. 135; groups of, i. 138; relation of, to vege-
tation, ii. 219; general treatment of, iii. 255; earliest occur-
rence of, ii. 220.
D
Daguerreotype, probable results of, iii. 169.
Darkness, a character of early churches, ii. 18; not an abstract
evil, iii. 220.
Death, fear of, in Eenaissance times, iii. 65, 90, 92; how ancient-
ly regarded, iii. 139, 156.
Decoration, true nature of, i. 405; how to judge of, i. 44, 45. See
" Ornament."
Demons, nature of, how illustrated by Milton and Dante, iii.
147.
Dentil, Venetian, defined, i. 273, 275.
Design, definition of the term, ii. 183; its relations to naturalism,
ii. 184.
Despair, how symbolized, n. 334.
Diapei patterns in brick, i. 296; m color, iii. 21, 22.
Discord, how symbolized, n. 333.
III. TOPICAL INDEX. 475
Discs, decoration by means of, i. 240, 416; ii. 147, 264.
Division of labor, evils of, ii. 165.
Doge of Venice, his power, i. 3, 360.
Dogtooth moulding defined, i. 269.
Dolphins, moral disposition of, i. 230; use of, in symbolic repre-
sentation of sea, i. 422, 423.
/Domestic architecture, richness of, in middle ages, ii. 99.
Doors, general structure of, i. 174, 176; smallness of in English
cathedrals, i. 176; ancient Venetian, ii. 277, iii. 227.
Doric architecture, i. 157, 301, 307; Christian Doric, i. 308, 315.
Dragon, conquered by St. Donatus, ii. 33; use of, in ornamenta-
tion, ii. 219.
Dreams, how resembled by the highest arts, iii. 153; prophetic,
in relation to the Grotesque, iii. 156.
Dress, its use in ornamentation, i. 212; early Venetian, ii. 383;
dignity of, iii. 191; changes in modern dress, iii. 192.
Duties of buildings, i. 47.
E
Earthquake of 1511, ii. 242.
Eastern races, their power over color, ii. 147.
Eaves, construction of, i. 156.
Ecclesiastical architecture in Venice, i. 20; no architecture ex-
clusively ecclesiastical, n. 99.
Edge decoration, i. 268.
Education, University,!. 391; iii. 110; evils of, with respect to
architectural workmen, ii. 107; how to be successfully under-
taken, ii. 165, 214; modern education in general, how mis-
taken, iii. 110, 234; system of, in Plato, ii. 318; of Persian
kings, ii. 318; not to be mistaken for erudition, iii. 219;
ought to be universal, iii. 220.
Egg and arrow mouldings, i. 314.
Egyptian architecture, i. 99, 239; ii. 203.
Elgin marbles, ii. 171.
Encrusted architecture, i. 271, 272; general analysis of, ii. 76.
Energy of Northern Gothic, i. 371; h. 16, 204.
English (early) capitals, faults of, i. 100, 411; English mind, its
mistaken demands of perfection, ii. 160.
Envy, how set forth, ii. 346.
Evangelists, types of, how explicable, iii. 155.
276 III. TOPICAL INDEX.
F
Faerie Queen, Spenser's, value of, theologically, ii. 328.
Faith, influence of on art, ii. 104, 105; Titian's picture of, i. 11;
how symbolized, ii. 337.
Falsehood, how symbolized, ii. 349.
Fatalism, how expressed in Eastern architecture, ii. 205.
Fear, effect of, on human life, iii. 137; on Grotesque art, iii. 142.
Feudalism, healthy effects of, i. 184.
Fig-tree, sculpture of, on Ducal Palace, ii. 307.
Fillet, use of, in ornamentation, i. 267.
Finials, their use in ornamentation, i. 346; a sign of decline in
Venetian architecture, iii. 109.
Finish in workmanship, when to be required, ii. 165; dangers of,
iii. 170, ii. 162.
Fir, spruce, influence of, on architecture, i. 152.
Fire, forms of, in ornamentation, i. 228.
Fish, use of, in ornamentation, i. 229.
Flamboyant Gothic, i. 278, ii. 225.
Flattery, common in Eenaissance times, iii. 64.
Flowers, representation of, how desirable, i. 340; how repre-
sented in mosaic, iii. 179.
Fluting of columns, a mistake, i. 301.
Foils, definition of, ii. 221.
Foliage, how carved in declining periods, iii. 8, 17. See "Vege-
tation. "
Foliation defined, ii. 219; essential to Gothic architecture, ii.
222.
Folly, how symbolized, ii. 325, 348.
Form of Gothic, defined, ii. 209.
Fortitude, how symbolized, ii. 337.
Fountains, symbolic representations of, i. 427.
French architecture, compared with Italian, ii. 226.
Frivolity, how exhibited in Grotesque art, iii. 143.
Fruit, its use in ornamentation, i. 232.
G
Gable, general structure of, i. 124; essential to Gothic, ii. 210,
217.
III. TOPICAL INDEX. 277
Gardens, Italian, iii. 136.
Generalization, abuses of, iii. 176.
Geology of Lombardy, ii. 5.
Glass, its capacities in architecture, i. 409; manufacture of, ii.
166; true principles of working in, ii. 168, 395.
Gluttony, how symbolized, ii. 343.
Goldsmiths' work, a high form of art, ii. 166.
Gondola, management of, ii. 375.
Gothic architecture, analysis of, ii. 151; not derived from vege-
table structure, i. 121; convenience of, ii. 178; divisions of,
ii. 215; surface and linear, ii. 226; Italian and French, ii.
226; flamboyant, i. 278, ii. 225; perpendicular, i. 192, ii.
223, 227; early English, i. 109; how to judge of it, ii. 228;
how fitted for domestic purposes, ii. 269, iii. 195; how first
corrupted, iii. 3; how to be at present built, iii. 196; early
Venetian, ii. 248 ; ecclesiastical Venetian, i. 21; central
Venetian, ii. 231; how adorned by color in Venice, iii. 23.
Government of Venice, i. 2, ii. 366.
Grammar, results of too great study of it, iii. 55, 106.
Greek architecture, general character of, i. 240, ii. 215, iii. 159.
Grief. See " Sorrow."
Griffins, Lombardic, i. 292, 387.
Grotesque, analysis of, iii. 132; in changes of form, i. 317; in
Venetian painting, iii. 162; symbolical, iii. 155; its charac-
ter in Renaissance work, iii. 113, 121, 136, 143.
Gutters of roofs, i. 151.
H
Heathenism, typified in ornament, i. 317. See " Paganism."
Heaven and Hell, proofs of their existence in natural phenomena,
iii. 138.
History, how to be written and read, iii. 224.
Hobbima, iii. 184.
Honesty, how symbolized, ii. 349.
Hope, how symbolized, ii. 341.
Horseshoe arches, i. 129, ii. 249, 250.
Humanity, spiritual nature of, i. 41; divisions of, with respect to
art, i. 394.
Humility, how symbolized, ii. 339.
278 III. TOPICAL INDEX.
I
Idleness, ho\v symbolized, ii. 345.
Idolatry, proper sense of the term, ii. 388; is no encourager of
art, ii. 110. See "Popery."
Imagination, its relation to art, iii. 182.
Imitation of precious stones, &c., how reprehensible, iii. 26, 30.
Imposts, continuous, i. 120.
Infidelity, how symbolized, ii. 335; an element of the Renais-
sance spirit, iii. 100.
Injustice, how symbolized, ii. 349.
Inlaid ornamentation, i. 369; perfection of, in early Eenaissance,
iii. 26.
Inscriptions at Murano, ii. 47, 54; use of, in early times, ii. 111.
Insects, use of, in ornamentation, i. 230.
Inspiration, how opposed to art, iii. 151, 171.
Instinct, its dignity, iii. 171.
Intellect, how variable in dignity, iii. 173.
Involution, delightfulness of, in ornament, ii. 136.
Iron, its use in architecture, i. 184, 410.
Italians, modern character of, iii. 209.
Italy, how ravaged by recent war, iii. 209.
J
Jambs, Gothic, iii. 137.
Jesting, evils of, iii. 129.
Jesuits, their restricted power in Venice, i. 366.
Jewels, their cutting, a bad employment, ii. 166.
Judgments, instinctive, i. 399.
Job, book of, its purpose, iii. 53.
K
Keystones, how mismanaged in Eenaissance work. See Venetian
Index, under head "Libreria."
Knowledge, its evil consequences, iii. 40; how to be received, iii,
50, &c. See " Education."
L
Labor, manual, ornamental value of, i. 407; evils of its division,
ii. 1G5; is not a degradation, ii. 168.
III. TOPICAL INDEX. 2TH
Labyrinth, in Venetian streets, its clue, ii. 254.
Lagoons, Venetian, nature of, ii. 7, 8.
Landscape, lower schools of, i. 24; Venetian, ii. 149; modern love
of, ii. 175, iii. 123.
Laws of right in architecture, i. 32; laws in general, how per-
missibly violated, i. 255, ii. 210; their position with respect
to art, iii. 96; and to religion, iii. 205.
Leaves, use of, in ornamentation, i. 232 (see "Vegetation");
proportion of, ii. 128.
Liberality, how symbolized, ii. 333.
Life in Byzantine architecture, ii. 133.
Lilies, beautiful proportions of, ii. 128 ; used for parapet orna-
ments, ii. 242; lily capitals, ii. 137.
Limitation of ornament, i. 254.
Lines, abstract use of, in ornament, i. 221.
Lintel, its structure, i. 124, 126.
Lion, on piazzetta shafts, iii. 238.
Load, of arches, i. 133.
Logic, a contemptible science, iii. 105.
Lombardic architecture, i. 17.
Lotus leaf, its use in architecture, i. 233.
Love, its power over human life, iii. 137.
Lusts, their power over human nature, how symbolized by Spen-
ser, ii. 328.
Luxury, how symbolized, ii. 342; how traceable in ornament,
iii. 4; of Renaissance schools, iii. 61.
M
Madonna, Byzantine representations of, ii. 53.
Magnitude, vulgar admiration of, iii. 64.
Malmsey, use of, in Feast of the Maries, iii. 117.
Marble, its uses, iii. 27.
Maries, Feast of the, iii. 117.
Mariolatry, ancient and modern, ii. 55.
Marriages of Venetians, iii, 116.
Masonry, Mont-Cenisian, i.132; of walls, i. 61; of arches, i. 133.
Materials, invention of new, how injurious to art, iii. 42.
Misery, how symbolized, ii. 347.
Modesty, how symbolized, ii. 335.
280 in. TOPICAL INDEX.
Monotony, its place in art, ii. 176.
Months, personifications of, in ancient art, ii. 272.
Moroseness, its guilt, iii. 130.
Mosaics at Torcello, ii. 18, 19 , at St. Mark's, ii. 70, 112 ; early
character of, ii. 110, iii. 175, 178.
Music, its relation to color, iii. 186.
Mythology of Venetian painters, ii. 150 ; ancient, how injurious
to the Christian mind, iii. 107.
N
Natural history, how necessary a study, iii. 54.
Naturalism, general analysis of it with respect to art, ii. 181,
190 ; its advance in Gothic art, iii. 6 ; not to be found in
the encrusted style, ii. 89 ; its presence in the noble Gro-
tesque, iii. 144.
Nature (in the sense of material universe) not improvable by art,
i. 350 ; its relation to architecture, i. 351.
Niches, use of, in Northern Gothic, i. 278 ; in Venetian, ii. 240 ;
in French and Veronese, ii. 227.
Norman hatchet-work, i. 297 ; zigzag, i. 339.
Novelty, its necessity to the human mind, ii. 176.
0
Oak-tree, how represented in symbolical art, iii. 185.
Obedience, how symbolized, ii. 334.
Oligarchical government, its effect on the Venetians, i. 5.
Olive-tree, neglect of, by artists, iii. 175 ; general expression of,
iii. 176, 177 ; representations of, in mosaic, iii. 178.
Order, uses and disadvantages of, ii. 172.
Orders, Doric and Corinthian, i. 13 ; ridiculous divisions of, i.
157, 370; ii. 173, 249; iii. 99.
Ornament, material of, i. 211 ; the best, expresses man's delight
in God's work, i. 220 ; not in his own, i. 211 ; general treat-
ment of, i. 236 ; is necessarily imperfect, i. 237, 240 ; di-
vided into servile, subordinate, and insubordinate, i. 242, ii.
158 ; distant effect of, i. 248 ; arborescent, i. 252 ; restrained
within limits, i. 255; cannot be overcharged if good, i. 406.
Oxford, system of education at, i. 391.
III. TOPICAL INDEX. 281
P
Paganism, revival of its power in modern times, iii. 105, 107,
122.
Painters, their power of perception, iii. 37 ; influence of society
on, iii. 41 ; what they should know, iii. 41 ; what is their
business, iii. 187.
Palace, the Crystal, merits of, i. 409.
Palaces, Byzantine, ii. 118, 391 ; Gothic, ii. 231.
Papacy. See "Popery."
Parapets, i. 162, ii. 240.
Parthenon, curves of, ii. 127.
Patience, how symbolized, ii. 334.
Pavements, ii. 52.
Peacocks, sculpture of, i. 240.
Pedestals of shafts, i. 82 ; and see Venetian Index under head
"Giorgio Maggiore."
Perception opposed to knowledge, iii. 37.
Perfection, inordinate desire of, destructive of art, i. 237; ii. 133,
158, 169.
Perpendicular style, i. 190, 253; ii. 223, 227.
Personification, evils of, ii. 322.
Perspective, aerial, ridiculous exaggerations of, iii. 45 ; ancient
pride in, iii. 57 ; absence of, in many great works, see in
Venetian Index the notice of Tintoret's picture of the
Pool of Bethesda, under head "Rocco."
Phariseeism and Liberalism, how opposed, iii. 97.
Philology, a base science, iii. 54.
Piazzetta at Venice, plan of, ii. 283 ; shafts of, ii. 233.
Pictures, judgment of, how formed, ii. 371 ; neglect of, in Venice,
ii. 372 ; how far an aid to religion, ii. 104, 110.
Picturesque, definition of term, iii. 134.
Piers, general structure of, i. 71, 98, 118.
Pilgrim's Progress. See "Bunyan."
Pine of Italy, its effect on architecture, i. 152 ; of Alps, effect in
distance, i. 245. See "Fir."
Pinnacles are of little practical service, i. 170 ; their effect on com-
mon roofs, i. 347-
Play, its relation to Grotesque art, iii. 126.
282 III. TOPICAL
Pleasure, its kinds and true uses, iii. 189.
Popery, how degraded in contest with Protestantism, i. 34, iii.
103 ; its influence on art, i. 23, 34, 35, 384, 432, ii. 51 ; typi-
fied in ornament, i. 316 ; power of Pope in Venice, i. 362 ;
arts used in support of Popery, ii. 74.
Porches, i. 195.
Portraiture, power of, in Venice, iii. 164.
Posture-making in Eenaissance art, iii. 90.
Prayers, ancient and modern, difference between, ii. 315,
390.
Pre-Eaphaelitism, iii. 90 ; present position of, iii. 168, 174, 188.
Pride, how symbolized, ii. 343, iii. 207 : of knowledge, iii. 35 ;
of state, iii. 59 ; of system, iii. 95.
Priests, restricted power of, in Venice, i. 366.
Proportions, subtlety of, in early work, ii. 38, 121, 127.
Protestantism, its influence on art, i. 23 ; typified in ornament,
i. 316 ; influence of, on prosperity of nations, i. 368 ; expen-
diture in favor of, i. 434 ; is incapable of judging of art, ii.
105 ; how expressed in art, ii. 205 ; its errors in opposing
Romanism, iii. 102, 103, 104 ; its shame of religious confes-
sion, ii. 278.
Prudence, how symbolized, ii. 340.
Pulpits, proper structure of, ii. 22, 380.
Purism in art, its nature and definition, ii. 189.
Purity, how symbolized, iii. 20.
Q
Quadrupeds, use of in ornamentation, i. 234.
Quantity of ornament, its regulation, i. 23.
E
Rationalism, its influence-on art, i. 23.
Realization, how far allowable in noble art, iii. 182, 186.
Recesses, decoration of, i. 278.
decumbent statues, iii. 72.
Redundance, an element of Gothic, ii. 206.
Religion, its influence on Venetian policy, i. 6 ; how far aided
by pictorial art, ii. 104, 109 ; contempt of, in Renaissance
times, iii. 122.
III. TOPICAL INDEX.
Renaissance architecture, nature of, iii. 33 ; early, iii. 1 ; Byzan-
tine, iii. 15 ; Roman, iii. 32 ; Grotesque, iii. 112 ; inconsis-
tencies of, iii. 42, etc.
Reptiles, how used in ornamentation, i. 230.
Resistance,. line of, in arches, i. 126.
Restraint, ornamental, value of, i. 255.
Reverence, how ennobling to humanity, ii. 163.
Rhetoric, a base study, iii. 106.
Rigidity, an element of Gothic, ii. 203.
Rivers, symbolical representation of, i. 419, 420.
Rocks, use of, in ornamentation, i. 224 ; organization of, i. 246;
curvatures of, i. 58, 224.
Roll-mouldings, decoration of, i. 276.
Romance, modern errors of, ii. 4 ; how connected with dress, iii.
192.
Romanesque style, i. 15, 19, 145; ii. 215. See " Byzantine," and
"Renaissance."
Romanism. See "Popery."
Roofs, analysis of, i. 46, 148; ii. 212, 216 ; domed, i. 149 ; Swiss,
i. 149, 345 ; steepness of, conducive to Gothic character, i,
151, ii. 209 ; decoration of, i. 343.
Rustication, is ugly and foolish, i. 65 ; natural objects of which
it produces a resemblance, i. 296.
S
Salvia, its leaf applied to architecture, i. 287, 306.
Sarcophagi, Renaissance treatment of, iii. 90 ; ancient, iii. 69,
93.
Satellitic shafts, i. 95.
Satire in Grotesque art, iii. 126, 145.
Savageness, the first element of Gothic, ii. 155 ; in Grotesque
art, iii. 159.
Science opposed to art, iii. 36.
Sculpture, proper treatment of, i. 216, &c.
Sea, symbolical representations of, i. 352, 421 ; natural waves of,
i. 351.
Sensualism in art, its nature and definition, ii. 189 ; how re-
deemed by color, ii. 145.
Serapeum at Memphis, cusps of, ii. 220.
284 III. TOPICAL INDEX.
Sermons, proper manner of regarding them, ii. 22 ; mode of
their, delivery in Scotch church, ii. 381.
Serrar del Consiglio, ii. 291.
Shafts, analysis of, i. 84 ; vaulting shafts, i. 145 ; ornamentation
of, i. 300 ; twisted, by what laws regulated, i. 303 ; strength
of, i. 402 ; laws by which they are regulated in encrusted
style, ii. 82.
Shields, use of, on tombs, ii. 224, iii. 87.
Shipping, use of, in ornamentation, i. 215.
Shops in Venice, ii. 65.
Sight, how opposed to thought, iii. 39.
Simplicity of life in thirteenth century, ii. 263.
Sin, how symbolized in Grotesque art, iii. 141.
Slavery of Greeks and Egyptians, ii. 158 ; of English workmen,
ii. 162, 163.
Society, unhealthy state of, in modern times, ii. 163.
Sorrow, how sinful, ii. 325 ; how symbolized, ii. 347.
Soul, its development in art, iii. 173, 188 ; its connection with
the body, i. 41, 395.
Spandrils, structure of, i. 146 ; decoration of, i. 297.
Spirals, architectural value of, i. 222, ii. 16.
Spurs of bases, i. 79.
Staircases, i. 208 ; of Gothic palaces, ii. 280.
Stucco, when admissible, iii. 21.
Subordination of ornament, i. 240.
Superimposition of buildings, i. 200 ; ii. 386.
Surface-Gothic, explanation of term, ii. 225, 227.
Symbolism, i. 417 ; how opposed to personification, ii. 322.
System, pride of, how hurtful, iii. 95, 99.
T
Temperance, how symbolized, ii. 338 ; temperance in color and
curvature, iii. 420.
Theology, opposed to religion, iii. 216 ; of Spencer, iii. 205.
Thirteenth century, its high position with respect to art, ii. 263.
Thought, opposed to sight, iii. 39.
Tombs at Verona, i. 142, 412 ; at Venice, ii. 69 ; early Christian,
iii. 67 ; Gothic, iii. 71 ; Kenaissance treatment of, iii. 84.
Towers, proper character of, i. 204 ; of St. Mark's, i. 207.
III. TOPICAL INDEX. 285
Traceries, structure of, i. 184, 185 ; flamboyant, i. 189 ; stump,
i. 189 ; English perpendicular, i. 190, ii. 222 ; general char-
acter of, ii. 220 ; strength of, in Venetian Gothic, ii. 234,
iii. 253 ; general forms of tracery bars, iii. 250.
Treason, how detested by Dante, ii. 327.
Trees, use of, in ornamentation, i. 231.
Trefoil, use of, in ornamentation, ii. 42.
Triangles, used for ornaments at Murano, ii. 43.
Tribune at Torcello, ii. 24.
Triglyphs, ugliness of, i. 43.
Trimkmakers, their share in recovery of Brides of Venice, iii.
117, 118.
Truth, relation of, to religion, in Spenser's " Faerie Queen," iii.
205; typified by stones, iii. 31.
Tympanum, decoration of, i. 299.
TJ
Unity of Venetian nobility, i. 10.
V
Vain glory, speedy punishment of, in. 122.
Vanity, how symbolized, ii. 346.
.Variety in ornamental design, importance of, ii. 43, 133, 142,
172.
Vegetation, use of, in ornamentation, i. 232 ; peculiar meaning
of, in Gothic, ii. 199 ; how connected with cusps, ii. 219.
Veil (wall veil), construction of, i. 58 ; decoration of, i. 294.
Vine, Lombardic sculpture of, i. 375 ; at Torcello, ii. 15 ; use
of, in ornamentation, ii. 141 ; in symbolism, ii. 143 ; sculp-
ture of, on Ducal Palace, ii. 308.
^Virtues, how symbolized in sepulchral monuments, iii. 82, 86 ;
systems of, in Pagan and Christian philosophy, ii. 312 ;
cardinal, ii. 317, 318, 320 ; of architecture, i. 36, 44.
Voussoirs defined, i. 125 ; contest between them and architraves,
i. 336.
W
Walls, general analysis of their structure, i. 48 ; bases of, i.
52, 53 ; cornices of, i. 63 ; rustication of, i. 61, 338 ; decora^
tion of, i. 294 ; courses in, i. 61, 295.
286 HI. TOPICAL INDEX.
Water, its use in ornamentation, i. 226 ; ancient representations
of, i. 417.
Weaving, importance of associations connected with, ii. 136.
Wells, old Venetian, ii. 279.
Windows, general forms of, i. 179 ; Arabian, i. 180, ii. 135 ;
square-headed, ii. 211, 269 ; development of, in Venice, ii.
235 ; orders of, in Venice, ii. 248 ; advisable form of, in
modern buildings, ii. 269.
Winds, how symbolized at Venice, ii. 367.
Wooden architecture, i. 381.
Womanhood, virtues of, as given by Spenser, ii. 326.
Zigzag, Norman, i. 339.
TV.
VENETIAN INDEX.
I HAVE endeavored to make the following index as useful as
possible to the traveller, by indicating only the objects which are
really worth his study. A traveller's interest, stimulated as it
is into strange vigor by the freshness of every impression, and
deepened by the sacredness of the charm of association which
long familiarity with any scene too fatally wears away,* is too
precious a thing to be heedlessly wasted ; and as it is physically
impossible to see and to understand more than a certain quantity
of art in a given time, the attention bestowed on second-rate
works, in such a city as Venice, is not merely lost, but actually
harmful, — deadening the interest and confusing the memory
with respect to those which it is a duty to enjoy, and a disgrace
to forget. The reader need not fear being misled by any omis-
sions; for I have conscientiously pointed out every characteristic
example, even of the styles which I dislike, and have referred to
Lazari in all instances in which my own information failed: but
if he is in any wise willing to trust me, I should recommend
him to devote his principal attention, if he is fond of paintings,
* " Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius?
Are those the distant turrets of Verona ?
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him?
Such questions hourly do I ask myself;
And not a stone in a crossway inscribed
'To Mantua,' ' To Ferrara,' but excites
Surprise, and doubt, and self -congratulation."
Alas, after a few short months, spent even in the scenes dearest to his-
tory, we can feel thus no more.
2b8 VENETIAN INDEX.
to the works of Tintoret, Paul Veronese, and John Bellini ; not
of course neglecting Titian, yet remembering that Titian can be
well and thoroughly studied in almost any great European
gallery, while Tintoret and Bellini can be judged of only in
Venice, and Paul Veronese, though gloriously represented by
the two great pictures in the Louvre, and many others through-
out Europe, is yet not to be fully estimated until he is seen at
play among the fantastic chequers of the Venetian ceilings.
I have supplied somewhat copious notices of the pictures of
Tintoret, because they are much injured, difficult to read, and
entirely neglected by other writers on art. I cannot express the
astonishment and indignation I felt on finding, in Kugler's
handbook, a paltry cenacolo, painted probably in a couple of
hours for a couple of zecchins, for the monks of St. Trovaso,
quoted as characteristic of this master ; just as foolish readers
quote separate stanzas of Peter Bell or the Idiot Boy, as charac-
teristic of Wordsworth. Finally, the reader is requested to
observe, that the dates assigned to the various buildings named
in the following index, are almost without exception conjectural ;
that is to say, founded exclusively on the internal evidence of
which a portion has been given in the Final Appendix. It is
likely, therefore, that here and there, in particular instances,
further inquiry may prove me to have been deceived ; but such
occasional errors are not of the smallest importance with respect
to the general conclusions of the preceding pages, which will be
found to rest on too broad a basis to be disturbed.
A
ACCADEMIA DELLE BELLE Aim. Notice above the door the
two bas-reliefs of St. Leonard and St. Christopher, chiefly
remarkable for their rude cutting at so late a date as 1377 ;
but the niches under which they stand are unusual in their
bent gables, and in little crosses within circles which fill their
cusps. The traveller is generally too much struck by Titian's
great picture of the " Assumption," to be able to pay proper
attention to the other works in this gallery. Let him, how-
ever, ask himself candidly, how much of his admiration
ACCADEMtA-— AKTONIKO. 289
dependent merely upon the picture being larger than any other
in the room, and having bright masses of red and blue in it :
let him be assured that the picture is in reality not one whit
the better for being either large, or gaudy in color ; and he
will then be better disposed to give the pains necessary to dis-
cover the merit of the more profound and solemn works of
Bellini and Tintoret. One of the most wonderful works in
the whole gallery is Tintoret's " Death of Abel," on the left of
the " Assumption ;" the " Adam and Eve," on the right of it,
is hardly inferior ; and both are more characteristic examples
of the master, and in many respects better pictures, than the
much vaunted "Miracle of St. Mark." All the works of
Bellini in this room are of great beauty and interest. In the
great room, that which contains Titian's " Presentation of the
Virgin," the traveller should examine carefully all the pictures
by Vittor Carpaccio and Gentile Bellini, which represent
scenes in ancient Venice ; they are full of interesting archi-
tecture and costume. Marco Basaiti's "Agony in the Gar-
den" is a lovely example of the religious school. The Tin-
torets in this room are all second rate, but most of the
Veronese are good, and the large ones are magnificent.
ALIGA. See GIORGIO.
A.LVISE, CHURCH OF ST. I have never been in this church, but
Lazari dates its interior, with decision, as of the year 1388,
and it may be worth a glance, if the traveller has time.
ANDREA, CHURCH OF ST. Well worth visiting for the sake of
the peculiarly sweet and melancholy effect of its little grass-
grown campo, opening to the lagoon and the Alps. The
sculpture over the door, "St. Peter walking on the "Water,"
is a quaint piece of Renaissance work. Note the distant
rocky landscape, and the oar of the existing gondola floating
by St. Andrew's boat. The church is of the later Gothic
period, much defaced, but still picturesque. The lateral win-
dows are bluntly trefoiled, and good of their time.
ANGELI, CHURCH DELGLI, at Murano. The sculpture of the
" Annunciation" over the entrance-gate is graceful. In ex-
ploring Murano, it is worth while to row up the great canal
thus far for the sake of the opening to the lagoon.
CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
290 VENETIAN INDEX.
APOLLINARE, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
APOSTOLI, CHURCH OF THE. The exterior is nothing. There
is said to be a picture by Veronese in the interior, "The
Fall of the Manna." I have not seen it ; but, if it be
of importance, the traveller should compare it carefully with
Tintoret's, in the Scuola di San Rocco, and San Giorgio Mag-
giore.
APOSTOLI, PALACE AT, II. 253, on the Grand Canal, near the
Eialto, opposite the fruit-market. A most important transi-
tional palace. Its sculpture in the first story is peculiarly rich
and curious ; I think Venetian, in imitation of Byzantine.
The sea story and first floor are of the first half of the thir-
teenth century, the rest modern. Observe that only one wing
of the sea story is left, the other half having been modern-
ized. The traveller should land to look at the capital drawn
in Plate II. of Vol. III. fig. 7.
ARSENAL. Its gateway is a curiously picturesque example of
Renaissance workmanship, admirably sharp and expressive in
its ornamental sculpture ; it is in many parts like some of
the best Byzantine work. The Greek lions in front of it
appear to me to deserve more praise than they have received ;
though they are awkwardly balanced between conventional and
imitative representation, having neither the severity proper to
the one, "nor the>,veracity necessary for the other.
B
BADGER, PALAZZO, in the Campo San Giovanni in Bragola. A
magnificent example of the fourteenth century Gothic, circa
1310-1320, anterior to the Ducal Palace, and showing beautiful
ranges of the fifth order window, with fragments of the origi-
nal balconies, and the usual lateral window larger than any of
the rest. In the centre of its arcade on the first floor is the
inlaid ornament drawn in Plate VIII. Vol. I. The fresco
painting on the walls is of later date ; and I believe the heads
which form the finials have been inserted afterwards also, the
original windows having been pure fifth order.
The building is now a ruin, inhabited by the lowest orders ;
the first floor, when I was last in Venice, by a laundress.
BAFFO, PALAZZO, in the Campo St. Maurizio. The commonest
APOLLINARE — BEMBO. 291
late Renaissance. A few olive leaves and vestiges of two
figures still remain upon it, of the frescoes by Paul Veronese,
with which it was once adorned.
BALBI, PALAZZO, in Volta di Canal. Of no importance.
BARBARIGO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, next the Casa Pisani.
Late Renaissance ; noticeable only as a house in which some of
the best pictures of Titian were allowed to be ruined by damp,
and out of which they were then sold to the Emperor of Russia.
BARBARO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, next the Palazzo
Cavalli. These two buildings form the principal objects in
the foreground of the view which almost every artist seizes
on his first traverse of the Grand Canal, the Church of the
Salute forming a most graceful distance. Neither is, how-
ever, of much value, except in general effect ; but the Barbaro
is the best, and the pointed arcade in its side wall, seen from
the narrow canal between it and the Cavalli, is good Gothic,
of the earliest fourteenth century type.
BARNABA, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
BARTOLOMEO, CHURCH OF ST. I did not go to look at the
works of Sebastian del Piombo which it contains, fully credit-
ing M. Lazari's statement, that they have been " Barbaramente
sfigurati da mani imperite, che pretendevano ristaurarli." Oth-
erwise the church is of no importance.
BASSO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
BATTAGIA, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.
BECCHERIE. See QUERINI.
BEMBO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, next the Casa Manin. A
noble Gothic pile, circa 1350-1380, which, before it was painted
by the modern Venetians with the two most valuable colors of
Tintoret, Bianco e Nero, by being whitewashed above, and
turned into a coal warehouse below, must have been among the
most noble in effect on the whole Grand Canal. It still forms
a beautiful group with the Rialto, some large shipping being
generally anchored at its quay. Its sea story and entresol are
of earlier date, I believe, than the rest; the doors of the former
are Byzantine (see above, Final Appendix, under head
"Jambs") ; and above the entresol is a beautiful Byzantine
cornice, built into the wall, and harmonizing well with the
Gothic work.
292 VENETIAN INDEX.
BEMBO, PALAZZO, in the Calle Magno, at the Campo de' due Pozzi,
close to the Arsenal. Noticed by Lazari and Selvatico as hav-
ing a very interesting staircase. It is early 'Gothic, circa 1330,
but not a whit more interesting than many others of similar
date and design. See "Contarini Porta de Ferro," "Moro-
sini," "Sanudo,"and "Minelli."
BENEDETTO, CAMPO OF ST. Do not fail to see the superb,
.though partially ruinous, Gothic palace fronting this little
square. It is very late Gothic, just passing into Eenaissance;
unique in Venice, in masculine character, united with the deli-
cacy of the incipient style. Observe especially the brackets
of the balconies, the flower-work on the cornices, and the ara-
besques on the angles of the balconies themselves.
BENEDETTO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
BERNARDO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. A very noble pile of
early fifteenth century Gothic, founded oil the Ducal Palace.
The traceries in its lateral windows are both rich and unusual.
BERNARDO, PALAZZO, at St. Polo. A glorious palace, on a nar-
row canal, in a part of Venice now inhabited by the lower
orders only. It is rather late Central Gothic, circa 1380-1400,
but of the finest kind, and superb in its effect of color when
seen from the side. A capital in the interior court is much
praised by Selvatico and Lazari, because its " foglie d' acanto"
(anything by the by, but acanthus), " quasi agitate de vento si
attorcigliano d' intorno alia campana, concetto non indegno
della bell' epoca greca!" Does this mean "epoca Bisantina?"
The capital is simply a translation into Gothic sculpture of the
Byzantine ones of St. Mark's and the Fondaco de' Turchi
(see Plate VIII. Vol. I. fig. 14), and is far inferior to either.
But, taken as a whole, I think that, after the Ducal Palace, this
is the noblest in effect of all in Venice.
BRENTA, Banks of the, I. 354. Villas on the, I. 354.
BUSINELLO, CASA, II. 391.
BYZANTINE PALACES generally, II. 118.
C
CAMERLENGHI, PALACE OF THE, beside the Rialto. A graceful
work of the early Kenaissance (1525) passing into Roman
Renaissance. Its details are inferior to most of the work of
BEMBO — CASSANO. 293
the school. The "Camerlenghi," properly "Camerlenghi di
Comune," were the three officers or ministers who had care of
the administration of public expenses.
CANCELLARIA, II. 293.
CANCIANO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
CAPPELLO, PALAZZO, at St. Aponal. Of no interest. Some say
that Bianca Cappello fled from it; but the tradition seems to
fluctuate between the various houses belonging to her family.
CARITA, CHURCH OF THE. Once an interesting Gothic church of
the fourteenth century, lately defaced, and applied to some of
the usual inportant purposes of the modern Italians. The
effect of its ancient fuqade may partly be guessed at from the
pictures of Canaletto, but only guessed at; Canaletto being less
to be trusted for renderings of details, than the rudest and
most ignorant painter of the thirteenth century.
CARMINI, CHURCH OF THE. A most interesting church of late
thirteenth century work, but much altered and defaced. Its
nave, in which the early shafts and capitals of the pure trun-
cate form are unaltered, is very fine in effect; its lateral porch
is quaint and beautiful, decorated with Byzantine circular
sculptures (of which the central one is given in Vol. II. Plate
XL fig. 5), and supported on two shafts whose capitals are
the most archaic examples of the pure Rose form that I know
in Venice.
There is a glorious Tintoret over the first altar on the right
in entering; the "Circumcision of Christ." I do not know
an aged head either more beautiful or more picturesque than
that of the high priest. The cloister is full of notable tombs,
nearly all dated; one, of the fifteenth century, to the left on
entering, is interesting from the color still left on the leaves
and flowers of its sculptured roses.
GASSANO, CHURCH OF ST. This church must on no account be
missed, as it contains three Tintorets, of which one, the
"Crucifixion," is among the finest in Europe. There is nothing
worth notice in the building itself, except the jamb of an
ancient door (left in the Renaissance buildings, facing the
canal), which has been given among the examples of Byzantine
jambs; and the traveller may, therefore, devote his entire
attention to the three pictures in the chancel.
294 VENETIAN INDEX.
1. The Crucifixion. (On the left of the high altar.) It is
refreshing to find a picture taken care of, and in a bright
though not a good light, so that such parts of it as are seen at
all are seen well. It is also in a better state than most pictures
in galleries, and most remarkable for its new and strange
treatment of the subject. It seems to have been painted more
for the artist's own delight, than with any labored attempt at
composition; the horizon is so low that the spectator must
fancy himself lying at full length on the grass, or rather among
the brambles and luxuriant weeds, of which the foreground is
entirely composed. Among these, the seamless robe of Christ
has fallen at the foot of the cross; the rambling briars and wild
grasses thrown here and there over its folds of rich, but pale,
crimson. Behind them, and seen through them, the heads of
a troop of Eoman soldiers are raised against the sky; and,
above them, their spears and halberds form a th"in forest
against the horizontal clouds. The three crosses are put on
the extreme right of the picture, and its centre is occupied
by the executioners, one of whom, standing on a ladder, re-
ceives from the other at once the sponge and the tablet with
the letters INKL The Madonna and St. John are on the ex-
treme left, superbly painted, like all the rest, but quite sub-
ordinate. In fact, the whole mind of the painter seems to
have been set upon making the principals accessary, and the
accessaries principal. We look first at the grass, and then at
the scarlet robe; and then at the clump of distant spears, and
then at the sky, and last of all at the cross. As a piece of
color, the picture is notable for its extreme modesty. There
is not a single very full or bright tint in any part, and yet the
color is delighted in throughout; not the slightest touch os it
but is delicious. It is worth notice also, and especially, because
this picture being in a'fresh state we are sure of orii fact, that,
like nearly all other great colorists, Tintoret was afraid of
light greens in his vegetation. He often uses dark blue greens
in his shadowed trees, but here where the grass is in full light,
it is all painted with various hues of sober brown, more espe-
cially where it crosses the crimson robe. The handling of the
whole is in his noblest manner; and I consider the picture
generally quite beyond all price. It was cleaned, I believe,
CASSANO. 295
some years ago, but not injured, or at least as little injured as
it is possible for a picture to be which has undergone any
cleaning process whatsoever.
2. The Resurrection. (Over the high altar.) The lowei-
part of this picture is entirely concealed by a miniature temple,
about five feet high, on the top of the altar; certainly an in-
sult little expected by Tintoret, as, by getting on steps, and
looking over the said temple, one may see that the lower figures
of the picture are the most labored. It is strange that the
painter never seemed able to conceive this subject with any
power, and in the present work he is marvellously hampered
by various types and conventionalities. It is not a painting of
the Kesurrection, but of Koman Catholic saints, thinking
about the Resurrection. On one side of the tomb is a bishop
in full robes, on the other a female saint, I know not who;
beneath it, an angel playing on an organ, and a cherub blowing
it; and other cherubs flying about the sky, with flowers; the
whole conception being a mass of Renaissance absurdities. It
is, moreover, heavily painted, over-done, and over-finished;
and the forms of the cherubs utterly heavy and vulgar. I
cannot help fancying the picture has been restored in some
way or another, but there is still great power in parts of it.
If it be a really untouched Tintoret, it is a highly curious ex-
ample of failure from over-labor on a subject into which his
mind was not thrown: the color is hot and harsh, and felt to
be so more painfully, from its opposition to the grand coolness
and chastity of the "Crucifixion." The face of the angel
playing the organ is highly elaborated; so, also, the flying
cherubs.
3. The Descent into Hades. (On the right-hand side of the
high altar. ) Much injured and little to be regretted. I never
was more puzzled by any picture, the painting being through-
out careless, and in some places utterly bad, and yet not like
modern work; the principal figure, however, of Eve, has either
been redone, or is scholar's work altogether, as, I suspect, most
of the rest of the picture. It looks as if Tintoret had sketched
it when he was ill, left it to a bad scholar to work on with, and
then finished it in a hurry; but he has assuredly had something
to do with it; it is not likely that anybody else would have re-
296 VENETIAN INDEX.
fused all aid from the usual spectral company with which com-
mon painters fill the scene. Bronzino, for instance, covers his
canvas with every form of monster that his sluggish imagination
could coin. Tintoret admits only a somewhat haggard Adam,
a graceful Ere, two or three Venetians in court dress, seen
amongst the smoke, and a Satan represented as a handsome
youth, recognizable only by the claws on his feet. The picture
is dark and spoiled, but I am pretty sure there are no demons
or spectres in it. This is quite in accordance with the master's
caprice, but it considerably diminishes the interest of a work
in other ways unsatisfactory. There may once have been
something impressive in the shooting in of the rays at the top
of the cavern, as well as in the strange grass that grows in the
bottom, whose infernal character is indicated by its all being
knotted together; but so little of these parts can be seen, that
it is not worth spending time on a work certainly unworthy of
the master, and in great part probably never seen by him.
CATTAKINA, CHURCH OF ST., said to contain a chef-d'ceuvre of
Paul Veronese, the "Marriage of St. Catherine." I have not
seen it.
CAVALLI, PALAZZO, opposite the Academy of Arts. An impos-
ing pile, on the Grand Canal, of Renaissance Gothic, but of
little merit in the details; and the effect of its traceries has
been of late destroyed by the fittings of modern external blinds.
Its balconies are good, of the later Gothic type. See " BAR-
BARO."
CAVALLI, PALAZZO, next the Casa Grimani (or Post-Office), but
on the other side of the narrow canal. Good Gothic, founded
on the Dncal Palace, circa 1380. The capitals of the first
story are remarkably rich in the deep fillets at the necks. The
crests, heads of sea-horses, inserted between the windows, ap-
pear to be later, but are very fine of their kind.
CICOGNA, PALAZZO, at San Sebastiano, II. 265.
CLEMENTE, CHURCH OF ST. On an island to the south of
Venice, from which the view of the city is peculiarly beautiful.
See "ScALzi."
CONTARINI PORTA Di TERR©, PALAZZO, near the Church of St.
John and Paul, so called from the beautiful ironwork on a
door, which was some time ago taken down by the proprietor
CASSANO — CORNER DELLA CA' GRANDE. - 297
and sold. Mr. Rawdon Brown rescued some of the ornaments
from the hands of the blacksmith, who had bought them for
old iron. The head of the door is a very interesting stone
arch of the early thirteenth century, already drawn in my
folio work. In the interior court is a beautiful remnant of
staircase, with a piece of balcony at the top, circa 1350, and
one of the most richly and carefully wrought in Venice. The
palace, judging by these remnants (all that are now left of it,
except a single traceried window of the same date at the turn
of the stair), must once have been among the most magnificent
in Venice.
CONTARINI (DELLE FIGURE), PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal,
III. 17.
CONTARINI DAI SCRIGNI, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. A
Gothic building, founded on the Ducal Palace. Two Renais-
sance statues in niches at the sides give it its name.
CONTARINI FASAN, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, II. 244.
The richest work of the fifteenth century domestic Gothic in
Venice, but notable more for richness than excellence of design.
In one respect, however, it deserves to be regarded with atten-
tion, as showing how much beauty and dignity may be
bestowed on a very small and unimportant dwelling-house by
Gothic sculpture. Foolish criticisms upon it have appeared
in English accounts of foreign buildings, objecting to it on the
ground of its being "ill-proportioned;" the simple fact being,
that there was no room in this part of the canal for a wider
house, and that its builder made its rooms as comfortable as
he could, and its windows and balconies of a convenient size
for those who were to see through them, and stand on them,
and left the "proportions" outside to take care of themselves;
which, indeed, they have very sufficiently done; for though
the house thus honestly confesses its diminutiveness, it is
nevertheless one of the principal ornaments of the very noblest
reach of the Grand Canal, and would be nearly as great a loss,
if it were destroyed, as the Church of La Salute itself.
( 'ONTARINI, PALAZZO, at St. Luca. Of no importance.
CORNER DELLA CA' GRANDE, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal.
One of the worst and coldest buildings of the central Renais-
sance. It is on a grand scale, and is a conspicuous object,
208 VENETIAN INDEX.
rising over the roofs of the neighboring houses in the various
aspects of the entrance of the Grand Canal, and in the general
view of Venice from San Clemente.
CORNER BELLA REGINA, PALAZZO. A late Renaissance building
of no merit or interest.
CORNER MOCENIGO, PALAZZO, at St. Polo. Of no interest.
CORNER SPINELLI, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. A graceful
and interesting example of the early Renaissance, remarkable
for its pretty circular balconies.
CORNER, RACCOLTA. I must refer the reader to M. Lazari's
Guide for an account of this collection, which, however, ought
only to be visited if the traveller is not pressed for time.
D
DANDOLO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Between the Casa
Loredan and Casa Bembo is a range of modern buildings,
some of which occupy, I believe, the site of the palace once
inhabited by the Doge Henry Dandolo. Fragments of early
architecture of the Byzantine school may still be traced in
many places among their foundations, and two doors in the
foundation of the Casa Bembo itself belong to the same group.
There is only one existing palace, however, of any value, on
this spot, a very small but rich Gothic one of about 1300, with
two groups of fourth order windows in its second and third
stories, and some Byzantine circular mouldings built into it
above. This is still reported to have belonged to the family
of Dandolo, and ought to be carefully preserved, as it is one
of the most interesting and ancient Gothic palaces which yet
remain.
DANIELI ALBERGO. See NANI.
DA PONTE, PALAZZO. Of no interest.
DARIO, PALAZZO, I. 370;' III. 211.
DOGANA DI MARE, at the separation of the Grand Canal from
the Giudecca. A barbarous building of the time of the Gro-
tesque Renaissance (1676), rendered interesting only by its
position. The statue of Fortune, forming the weathercock,
standing on the world, is alike characteristic of the conceits of
the time, and of the hopes and principles of the last days of
Venice.
CORNER DELLA CA' GRANDE — DUCAL PALACE. 2'.)!j
DOXATO, CHURCH OF ST., at Murano, II. 31.
DONA', PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. I believe the palace
described under this name as of the twelfth century, by M.
Lazari, is that which I have called the Braided House, II. 132,
392.
D' ORO CASA. A noble pile of very quaint Gothic, once superb
in general effect, but now destroyed by restorations. I saw the
beautiful slabs of red marble, which formed the bases of its
balconies, and were carved into noble spiral mouldings of
strange sections, half a foot deep, dashed to pieces when I was
last in Venice; its glorious interior staircase, by far the most
interesting Gothic monument of the kind in Venice, had been
carried away, piece by piece, and sold for waste marble, two
years before. Of what remains, the most beautiful portions
are, or were, when I last saw them, the capitals of the windows
in the upper story, most glorious sculpture of the fourteenth
century. The fantastic window traceries are, I think, later-
but the rest of the architecture of this palace is anomalous, and
I cannot venture to give any decided opinion respecting it.
Parts of its mouldings are quite Byzantine in character, but
look somewhat like imitations.
DUCAL PALACE, I. 29; history of, II. 282, etc.; III. 199; plan
and section of, II. 282, 283; description of, II. 304, etc.; series
of its capitals, II. 332, etc.; spandrils of, I. 299, 415; shafts
of, I. 413; traceries of, derived from those of the Frari, II.
234; angles of, II. 239; main balcony of, II. 245; base of, III.
212; Rio Facade of, III. 25; paintings in, II. 372. The mul-
titude of works by various masters, which cover the walls of
this palace is so great, that the traveller is in general merely
wearied and confused by them. He had better refuse all at-
tention except to the following works:
1. Paradise, by Tintoret; at the extremity of the Great
Council chamber. I found it impossible to count the number
of figures in this picture, of which the grouping is so intricate,
that at the upper part it is not easy to distinguish one figure
from another; but I counted 150 important figures in one half
of it alone; so that, as there are nearly as many in subordinate
position, the total number cannot be under 500. I believe this
is, on the whole, Tintoret's chef-d'oeuvre; though it is so vast
300 VENETIAN INDEX.
that no one takes the trouble to read it, and therefore less
wonderful pictures are preferred to it. I have not myself been
able to study except a few fragments of it, all executed in his
finest manner; but it may assist a hurried observer to point
out to him that the whole composition is divided into concen-
tric zones, represented one above another like the stories of a
cupola, round the figures of Christ and the Madonna, at the
central and highest point: both these figures are exceedingly
dignified and beautiful. Between each zone or belt of the'
nearer figures, the white distances of heaven are seen filled
with floating spirits. The picture is, on the whole, wonder-
fully preserved, and the most precious thing that Venice pos-
sesses. She will not possess it long; for the Venetian acade-
micians, finding it exceedingly unlike their own works, declare
it to want harmony, and are going to retouch it to their own
ideas o'f perfection.
2. Siege of Zara ; the first picture on the right on entering
the Sala del Scrutinio. It is a mere battle piece, in which the
figures, like the arrows, are put in by the score. There are
high merits in the thing, and so much invention that it is
possible Tintoret may have made the sketch for it ; but, if ex-
ecuted by him at all, he has done it merely in the temper in
which a sign-painter meets the wishes of an ambitious land-
lord. He seems to have been ordered to represent all the
events of the battle at once ; and to have felt that, provided
he gave men, arrows, and ships enough, his employers would
be perfectly satisfied. The picture is a vast one, some thirty
feet by fifteen.
Various other pictures will be pointed out by the custode,
in these two rooms, as worthy of attention, but they are only
historically, not artistically, interesting. The works of Paul
Veronese on the ceiling have been repainted ; and the rest of
the pictures on the walls are by second-rate men. The travel-
ler must, once for all, be warned against mistaking the works
of Domenico Kobusti (Domenico Tintoretto), a very miserable
painter, for those of his illustrious father, Jacopo.
3. The Doge Grimani kneeling before Faith, by Titian ; in
the Sala delle quattro Porte. To be observed with care, as
one of the most striking examples of Titian's want of feeling
DUCAL PALACE. 301
and coarseness of conception. (See above, Vol. I. p. 12.) As
a work of mere art, it is, however, of great value. The trav-
eller who has been accustomed to deride Turner's indistinct-
ness of touch, ought to examine carefully the mode of painting
the Venice in the distance at the bottom of this picture.
4. Frescoes on the Roof of the Sala delle quattro Porte, by
Tintoret. Once magnificent beyond description, now mere
wrecks (the plaster crumbling away in large flakes), but yet
deserving of the most earnest study.
5. Christ taken down from the Cross, by Tintoret ; at the
upper end of the Sala dei Pregadi. One of the most interest-
ing mythic pictures of Venice, two doges being represented be-
side the body of Christ, and a most noble painting ; executed,
however, for distant effect, and seen best from the end of the
room.
6. Venice, Queen of the Sea, by Tintoret. Central compart-
ment of the ceiling, in the Sala dei Pregadi. Notable for the
sweep of its vast green surges, and for the daring character of
its entire conception, though it is wild and careless, and in
many respects unworthy of the master. Note the way in which
he has used the fantastic forms of the sea weeds, with respect
to what was above stated (III. 158), as to his love of the gro-
tesque.
7. The Doge Loredano in Prayer to the Virgin, by Tintoret;
in the same room. Sickly and pale in color, yet a grand work;
to be studied, however, more for the sake of seeing what a.
great man does " to order," when he is wearied of what is re-
quired from him, than for its own merit.
8. St. George and the Princess. There are, besides the
"Paradise," only six pictures in the Ducal Palace, as far as I
know, which Tintoret painted carefully, and those are all ex-
ceedingly fine: the most finished of these are in the Anti-Col-
legio; but those that are most majestic and characteristic of
the master are two oblong ones, made to fill the panels of the
walls in the Anti-Chiesetta; these two, each, I suppose, about
eight feet by six, are in his most quiet and noble manner.
There is excessively little color in them, their prevalent tone
being a greyish brown opposed with grey, black, and a very warm
russet. They are thinly painted, perfect in tone, and quite
1
302 VENETIAN INDEX.
untouched. The first of them is " St. George and the Dragon,"
the subject being treated in a new and curious way. The prin-
cipal figure is the princess, who sits astride on the dragon's
neck, holding him by a bridle of silken riband; St. George
stands above and behind her, holding his hands over her head
as if to bless her, or to keep the dragon quiet by heavenly
power; and a monk stands by on the right, looking gravely
on. There is no expression or life in the dragon, though the
white flashes in its eye .are very ghastly: but the whole thing
is entirely typical ; and the princess is not so much represented
riding on the dragon, as supposed to be placed by St. George
in an attitude of perfect victory over her chief enemy. She
has a full rich dress of dull red, but her figure is somewhat
ungracef ul. St. George is in grey armor and grey drapery,
and has a beautiful face; his figure entirely dark against the
distant sky. There is a study for this picture in the Man-
frini Palace.
9. St. Andrew and St. Jerome. This, the companion pic-
ture, has even less color than its opposite. It is nearly all
brown and grey; the fig-leaves and olive-leaves brown, the
faces brown, the dresses brown, and St. Andrew holding a
great brown cross. There is nothing that can be called color,
except the grey of the sky, which approaches in some places a
little to blue, and a single piece of dirty brick-red in St.
Jerome's dress ; and yet Tintoret's greatness hardly ever shows
more than in the management of such sober tints. I would
rather have these two small brown pictures, and two others in
the Academy perfectly brown also in their general tone — the
" Cain and Abel" and the " Adam and Eve,"— than all the
other small pictures in Venice put together, which he painted
in bright colors, for altar pieces; but I never saw two pictures
which so nearly approached grisailles as these, and yet were
delicious pieces of color. I do not know if I am right in call-
ing one of the saints St. Andrew. He stands holding a great
upright wooden cross against the sky. St. Jerome reclines at
his feet, against a rock, over which some glorious fig leaves and
olive branches are shooting ; every line of them studied with
the most exquisite care, and yet cast with perfect freedom.
10. Bacchus and Ariadne, The most beautiful of the four
DUCAL PALACE. 303
careful pictures by Tintoret, which occupy the angles of the
Anti-Collegio. Once one of the noblest pictures in the world,
but now miserably faded, the sun being allowed to fall on it
all day long. The design of the forms of the leafage round
the head of the Bacchus, and the floating grace of the female
figure above, will, however, always give interest to this picture,
unless it be repainted.
The other three Tintorets in this room are careful and fine,
but far inferior to the "Bacchus ;" and the "Vulcan and the
Cyclops" is a singularly meagre and vulgar study of common
models.
11. Europa, by Paul Veronese : in the same room. One of
the very few pictures which both possess and deserve a high
reputation.
12. Venice enthroned, by Paul Veronese ; on the roof of the
same room. One of the grandest pieces of frank color in the
Ducal Palace.
13. Venice, and the Doge Sebastian Venier ; at the upper
end of the Sala del Collegio. An unrivalled Paul Veronese,
far finer even than the " Europa."
14. Marriage of St. Catherine, by Tintoret ; in the same
room. An inferior picture, but the figure of St. Catherine is
quite exquisite. Note how her veil 'falls over her form, show-
ing the sky through it, as an alpine cascade falls over a marble
rock.
There are three other Tintorets on the walls of this room,
but all inferior, though full of power. Note especially the
painting of the lion's wings, and of the colored carpet, in the
one nearest the throne, the Doge Alvise Mocenigo adoring the
Kedeemer.
The roof is entirely by Paul Veronese, and the traveller who
really loves painting, ought to get leave to come to this room
whenever he chooses ; and should pass the sunny summer
mornings there again and again, wandering now and then into
the Anti-Collegio and Sala dei Pregadi, and coming back to
rest under the wings of the couched lion at the feet of the
"Mocenigo." He will no otherwise enter so deeply into the
heart of Venice.
304 VENETIAN" INDEX.
E
EMO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of no interest.
ERIZZO, PALAZZO, near the Arsenal, II. 262.
ERIZZO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, nearly opposite the Fon-
daco de' Turchi. A Gothic palace, with a single range of
windows founded on the Ducal traceries, and bold capitals.
It has been above referred to in the notice of tracery bars.
EUFEMIA, CHURCH OF ST. A small and defaced, but very curious,
early Gothic church on the Giudecca. Not worth visiting,
unless the traveller is seriously interested in architecture.
EUROPA, ALBERGO, ALL'. Once a Giustiniani Palace. Good
Gothic, circa 1400, but much altered.
EVANGELISTI, CASA DEGLI, II. 265.
F
FACANON, PALAZZO (ALLA FAVA). A fair example of the fif-
teenth century Gothic, founded on Ducal Palace.
FALIER, PALAZZO, at the Apostoli. Above, II. 253.
FANTINO, CHURCH OF ST. Said to contain a John Bellini,
otherwise of no importance.
FARSETTI, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, II. 124, 393.
FAVA, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
FELICE, CHURCH OF ST. Said to contain a Tintoret, which, if
untouched, I should conjecture, from Lazari's statement of its
subject, St. Demetrius armed, with one of the Ghisi family in
prayer, must be very fine. Otherwise the church is of no im-
portance.
FERRO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Fifteenth century
Gothic, very hard and bad.
FLANGINI, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.
FONDACO DE' TURCHI, I*. 328; II. 120, 121, 236. The opposite
plate, representing three of its capitals, has been several times
referred to.
FOXDACO DE' TEDESCHI. A huge and ugly building near the
Eialto, rendered, however, peculiarly interesting by remnants
of the frescoes by Giorgione with which it was once covered.
See Vol. II. 80, and III. 23.
FORMOSA, CHURCH OF SANTA MARIA, III. 113, 122,
EMO — FRARI, CHURCH OF THE. 305
FOSCA, CHURCH OF ST. Notable for its exceedingly picturesque
campanile, of late Gothic, but uninjured by restorations, and
peculiarly Venetian in being crowned by the cupola instead of
the pyramid, which would have been employed at the same
period in any other Italian city.
FOSCARI, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. The noblest example
in Venice of the fifteenth century Gothic, founded on the
Ducal Palace, but lately restored and spoiled, all but the stone-
work of the main windows. The restoration was necessary,
however: for, when I was in Venice in 1845, this palace was a
foul ruin; its great hall a mass of mud, used as a back recep-
tacle of a stone-mason's yard; and its rooms whitewashed, and
scribbled over with indecent caricatures. It has since been
partially strengthened and put in order; but as the Venetian
municipality have now given it to the Austrians to be used as
barracks, it will probably soon be reduced to its former condi-
tion. The lower palaces at the side of this building are said
by some to have belonged to the younger Foscari. See
"GlUSTINIANI."
FRANCESCO BELLA VIGNA, CHURCH OF ST. Base Renaissance,
but must be visited in order to see the John Bellini in the
Cappella Santa. The late sculpture, in the Cappella Giustin-
iani, appears from Lazari's statement to be deserving of care-
ful study. This church is said also to contain two pictures by
Paul Veronese.
FRARI, CHURCH OF THE. Founded in 1250, and continued at
various subsequent periods. The apse and adjoining chapels
are the earliest portions, and their traceries have been above
noticed (II. 234) as the origin of those of the Ducal Palace.
The best view of the apse, which is a very noble example of
Italian Gothic, is from the door of the Scuola di San Rocco.
The doors of the church are all later than any other portion of
it, very elaborate Renaissance Gothic. The interior is good
Gothic, but not interesting, except in its monuments. Of
these, the following are noticed in the text of this volume:
That of Duccio degli Alberti, at pages 74, 80; of the
unknown Knight, opposite that of Duccio, III. 74; of Fran-
cesco Foscari, III. 84; of Giovanni Pesaro, 91; of Jacopo
Pesaro, 92.
306 VENETIAN INDEX.
Besides these tombs, the traveller ought to notice carefully
that of Pietro Bernardo, a first-rate example of Renaissance
work; nothing can be more detestable or mindless in general
design, or more beautiful in execution. Examine especially
the griffins, fixed in admiration of bouquets, at the bottom.
The fruit and flowers which arrest the attention of the griffins
may well arrest the traveller's also; nothing can be finer of
their kind. The tomb of Canova, by Canova, cannot be
missed; consummate in science, intolerable in affectation, ridi-
culous in conception, null and void to the uttermost in inven-
tion and feeling. The equestrian statue of Paolo Savelli is
spirited; the monument of the Beato Pacifico, a curious ex-
ample of Renaissance Gothic with wild crockets (all in terra
cotta). There are several good Vivarini's in the church, but
its chief pictorial treasure is the John Bellini in the sacristy,
the most finished and delicate example of the master in Venice.
G
GEREMIA, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
GESUATI, CHURCH OF THE. Of no importance.
GIACOMO DE LORIO, CHURCH OF ST., a most interesting church,
of the early thirteenth century, but grievously restored. Its
capitals have been already noticed as characteristic of the
earliest Gothic; and it is said to contain four works of Paul
Veronese, but I have not examined them. The pulpit is ad-
mired by the Italians, but is utterly worthless. The verd-
antique pillar, in the south transept, is a very noble example
of the " Jewel Shaft." See the note at p. 83, Vol. II.
GIACOMO DI RIALTO, CHURCH OF ST. A picturesque little
church, on the Piazza di Rialto. It has been grievously re-
stored, but the pillars and capitals of its nave are certainly of
the eleventh century; those of its portico are of good central
Gothic; and it will surely not be left unvisited, on this ground,
if on no other, that it stands on the site, and still retains the
name, of the first church ever built on that Rialto which
formed the nucleus of future Venice, and became afterwards
the mart of her merchants.
GIOBBE, CHURCH OF ST., near the Cana Reggio. Its principal
entrance is a very fine example of early Renaissance sculp-
FRARi, CHURCH OF THE — GIORGIO MAGGIORE. 30?
ture. Note in it, especially, its beautiful use of the flower of
the convolvulus. There are said to be still more beautiful
examples of the same period, in the interior. The cloister,
though much defaced, is of the Gothic period, and worth a
glance.
GIORGIO DE' GRECI, CHURCH OF ST. The Greek Church. It
contains no valuable objects of art, but its service is worth
attending by those who have never seen the Greek ritual.
GIORGIO DE' SCHIAVONI, CHURCH OF ST. Said to contain a
very precious series of paintings by Victor Carpaccio. Other-
wise of no interest.
GIORGIO IK ALIGA (St. George in the seaweed), CHURCH OF ST.
Unimportant in itself, but the most beautiful view of Venice
at sunset is from a point at about two thirds of the distance
from the city to the island.
GIORGIO MAGGIORE, CHURCH OF ST. A building which owes
its interesting effect chiefly to its isolated position, being seen
over a great space of lagoon. The traveller should especially
notice in its facade the manner in which the central Kenais-
sance architects (of whose style this church is a renowned
example) endeavored to fit the laws they had established to
the requirements of their age. Churches were required with
aisles and clerestories, that is to say, with a high central nave
and lower wings; and the question was, how to face this form
with pillars of one proportion. The noble Komanesque archi-
tects built story above story, as at Pisa and Lucca; but the
base Palladian architects dared not do this. They must needs
retain some image of the Greek temple; but the Greek temple
was all of one height, a low gable roof being borne on ranges
of equal pillars. So the Palladian builders raised first a Greek
temple with pilasters for shafts; and, through the middle of
its roof, or horizontal learn, that is to say, of the cornice
which externally represented this beam, they lifted another
temple on pedestals, adding these barbarous appendages to the
shafts, which otherwise would not have been high enough;
fragments of the divided cornice or tie-beam being left be-
tween the shafts, and the great door of the church thrust in
between the pedestals. It is impossible to conceive a design
more gross, more barbarous, more childish in conception, more
308 VENETIAN INDEX.
servile in plagiarism, more insipid in result, more contemptibl
under every point of rational regard.
Observe, also, that when Palladio had got his pediment at
the top of the church, he did not know what to do with it;
he had no idea of decorating it except by a round hole in the
middle. (The traveller should compare, both in construction
and decoration, the Church of the Eedentore with this of San
Giorgio. ) Now, a dark penetration is often a most precious
assistance to a building dependent upon color for its effect;
for a cavity is the only means in the architect's power of ob-
taining certain and vigorous shadow; and for this purpose, a
circular penetration, surrounded by a deep russet marble
moulding, is beautifully used in the centre of the white field
on the side of the portico of St. Mark's. But Palladio had
given up color, and pierced his pediment with a circular cavity,
merely because he had not wit enough to fill it with sculpture.
The interior of the church is like a large assembly room, and
would have been undeserving of a moment's attention, but
that it contains some most precious pictures, namely:
1. Gathering the Manna. (On the left hand of the high
altar.) One of Tintoret's most remarkable landscapes. A
brook flowing through a mountainous country, studded with
thickets and palm trees; the congregation have been long in
the Wilderness, and are employed in various manufactures
much more than in gathering the manna. One group is
forging, another grinding manna in a mill, another making
shoes, one woman making a piece of dress, some washing; the
main purpose of Tintoret being evidently to indicate the con-
tinuity of the supply of heavenly food. Another painter
would have made the congregation hurrying to gather it, and
wondering at it; Tintoret at once makes us remember that
they have been fed with it "by the space of forty years." It
is a large picture, full of interest and power, but scattered in
effect, and not striking except from its elaborate landscape.
2. The Last Supper. (Opposite the former.) These two
pictures have been painted for their places, the subjects being
illustrative of the sacrifice of the mass. This latter is remark-
able for its entire homeliness in the general treatment of the
subject; the entertainment being represented like any large
GIORGIO MAGGIORK 309
supper in a second-rate Italian inn, the figures being all com-
paratively uninteresting; but we are reminded that the sub-
ject is a sacred one, not only by the strong light shining from
the head of Christ, but because the smoke of the lamp which
hangs over the table turns, as it rises, into a multitude of
angels, all painted in grey, the color of the smoke; and so
writhed and twisted together that the eye hardly at first dis-
tinguishes them from the vapor out of which they are formed,
ghosts of countenances and filmy wings filling up the intervals
between the completed heads. The idea is highly charac-
teristic of the master. The picture has been grievously
injured, but still shows miracles of skill in the expres-
sion of candle-light mixed with twilight; variously reflected
rays, and half tones of the dimly lighted chamber, mingled
with the beams of the lantern and those from the head of
Christ, flashing along the metal and glass upon the table, and
under it along the floor, and dying away into the recesses of
the room.
3. Martyrdom of various Saints. (Altar piece of the third
altar in the South aisle.) A moderately sized picture, and
now a very disagreeable one, owing to the violent red into
which the color that formed the glory of the angel at the top
is changed. It has been hastily painted, and only shows the
artist's power in the energy of the figure of an executioner
drawing a bow, and in the magnificent ease with which the
other figures are thrown together in all manner of wild groups
and defiances of probability. Stones and arrows are flying
about in the air at random.
4. Coronation of the Virgin. (Fourth altar in the same-
aisle.) Painted more for the sake of the portraits at the
bottom, than of the Virgin at the top. A good picture, but
somewhat tame for Tintoret, and much injured. The princi-
pal figure, in black, is still, however, very fine.
5. Resurrection of Christ. (At the end of the north aisler
in the chapel beside the choir.) Another picture painted
chiefly for the sake of the included portraits, and remarkably
cold in general conception; its color has, however, been gay
and delicate, lilac, yellow, and blue being largely used in it.
The flag which our Saviour bears in his hand, has been once
310 VENETIAN INDEX.
as bright as the sail of a Venetian fishing-boat, but the colors
are now all chilled, and the picture is rather crude than bril-
liant; a mere wreck of what it was, and all covered with
droppings of wax at the bottom.
6. Martyrdom of St. Stephen. (Altar piece in the north
transept. ) The Saint is in a rich prelate's dress, looking as if
he had just been saying mass, kneeling in the foreground, and
perfectly serene. The stones are flying about him like hail,
and the ground is covered with them as thickly as if it were a
river bed. But in the midst of them, at the saint's right
hand, there is a book lying, crushed but open, two or three
stones which have torn one of its leaves lying upon it. The
freedom and ease with which the leaf is crumpled is just as
characteristic of the master as any of the grander features;
no one but Tintoret could have so crushed a leaf; but the
idea is still more characteristic of him, for the book is evi-
dently meant for the Mosaic History which Stephen had just
been expounding, and its being crushed by the stones shows
how the blind rage of the Jews was violating their own law in
the murder of Stephen. In the upper part of the picture are
three figures, — Christ, the Father, and St. Michael. Christ
of course at the right hand of the Father, as Stephen saw him
standing; but there is little dignity in this part of the concep-
tion. In the middle of the picture, which is also the middle
distance, are three or four men throwing stones, with Tin-
toret's usual vigor of gesture, and behind them an immense
and confused crowd; so that, at first, we wonder where St.
Paul is; but presently we observe that, in the front of this
crowd, and almost exactly in the centre of the picture, there
is a figure seated on the ground, very noble and quiet, and with
some loose garments thrown across its knees. It is dressed
in vigorous black and red. The figure of the Father in the
sky above is dressed in black and red also, and these two
figures are the centres of color to the whole design. It is
almost impossible to praise too highly the refinement of con-
ception which withdrew the unconverted St. Paul into the
distance, so as entirely to separate him from the immediate
interest of the scene, and yet marked the dignity to which he
was afterward to be raised, by investing him with the colors
GIORGIO MAGGIORE — GIOVANNI E PAOLO. 311
which occurred nowhere else in the picture except in the
dress which veils the form of the Godhead. It is also to be
noted as an interesting example of the value which (he painter
put upon color only; another composer would have thought it
necessary to exalt the future apostle by some peculiar dignity
• of action or expression. The posture of the figure is indeed
grand, but inconspicuous; Tintoret does not depend upon it,
and thinks that the figure is quite ennobled enough by being
made a key-note of color.
It is also worth observing how boldly imaginative is the
treatment which covers the ground with piles of stones, and
yet leaves the martyr apparently unwounded. Another
painter would have covered him with blood, and elaborated
the expression of pain upon his countenance. Tintoret leaves
us under no doubt as to what manner of death he is dying; he
makes the air hurtle with the stones, but he does not choose
to make his picture disgusting, or even painful. The face of
the martyr is serene, and exulting; and we leave the picture,
remembering only how " he fell asleep."
GIOVANELLI, PALAZZO, at the Ponte di Noale. A fine example
of fifteenth century Gothic, founded on the Ducal Palace.
GIOVANNI E PAOLO, CHURCH OF ST.* Foundation of, III. 69.
An impressive church, though none of its Gothic is com-
parable with that of the North, or with that of Verona. The
Western door is interesting as one of the last conditions of
Gothic design passing into Kenaissance, very rich and beauti-
ful of its kind, especially the wreath of fruit and flowers
which forms its principal molding. The statue of Bartolomeo
Colleone, in the little square beside the church, is certainly
one of the noblest works in Italy. I have never seen anything
approaching it in animation, in vigor of portraiture, or noble-
ness of line. The reader will need Lazari's Guide in making
the circuit of the church, which is full of interesting monu-
ments: but I wish especially to direct his attention to two
pictures, besides the celebrated Peter Martyr: namely,
* I have always called this church, tn the text, simply " St. John and
Paul," not Sts. John and Paul, just as the Venetians say San Qiovanni e
Paolo, and not Santi G., &c.
312
VENETIAN IXDEX.
1. Tlie Crucifixion, by Tintoret; on the wall of the left-
hand aisle, just before turning into the transept. A picture
fifteen feet long by eleven or twelve high. I do not be-
lieve that either the "Miracle of St. Mark," or the great
"Crucifixion" in the Scuola di San Eocco, cost Tintoret more
pains than this comparatively small work, which is now utterly
neglected, covered with filth and cobwebs, and fearfully in-
jured. As a piece of color, and light and shade, it is alto-
gether marvellous. Of all the fifty figures which the picture
contains, there is not one which in any, way injures or con-
tends with another; nay, there is not a single fold of garment
or touch of the pencil which could be spared; every virtue of
Tintoret, as a painter, is there in its highest degree, — color at
once the most intense and the most delicate, the utmost
decision in the arrangement of masses of light, and yet half
tones and modulations of endless variety; and all executed
with a magnificence of handling which no words are ener-
getic enough to describe. I have hardly ever seen a pictu^
in which there was so much decision, and so little impetuosity,
and in which so little was conceded to haste, to accident, or
to weakness. It is too infinite a work to be describable; but
among its minor passages of extreme beauty, should especially
be noticed the manner in which the accumulated forms of the
human body, which fill the picture from end to end, are pre-
vented from being felt heavy, by the grace and elasticity of
two or three sprays of leafage which spring from a broken
root in the foreground, and rise conspicuous in shadow against
an interstice filled by the pale blue, grey, and golden light in
which the distant crowd is invested, the office of this foliage
being, in an artistical point of view, correspondent to that of
the trees set by the sculptors of the Ducal Palace on its
angles. But they have a far more important meaning in the
picture than any artistical one. If the spectator will look
carefully at the root which I have called broken, he will find that
in reality, it is not broken, but cut; the other branches of the
young tree having lately been cut away. When we remember
that one of the principal incidents in great San Eocco Cruci-
fixion is the ass feeding on withered palm leaves, we shall be
at no loss to understand the great painter's purpose in lifting
GIOVANNI E PAOLO, 313
the branch of this mutilated olive against the dim light of the
distant sky; while, close beside it, St. Joseph of Arimathea
drags along the dust a white garment — observe, the principal
light of the picture, — stained with the blood of that King
before whom, five days before, his crucifiers had strewn their
own garments in the way.
2. Our Lady with the Camerlenghi. (In the centre chapel
of the three on the right of the choir.) A remarkable inst-
ance of the theoretical manner of representing Scriptural facts,
which, at this time, as noted in the second chapter of this
volume, was undermining the belief of the facts themselves.
Three Venetian chamberlains desired to have their portraits
painted, and at the same time to express their devotion to the
Madonna ; to that end they are painted kneeling before her,
and in order to account for their all three being together, and
to give a thread or clue to the story of the picture, they are
represented as the Three Magi ; but lest the spectator should
think it strange that the Magi should be in the dress of Vene-
tian chamberlains, the scene is marked as a mere ideality, by
surrounding the person of the Virgin with saints who lived
five hundred years after her. She has for attendants St.
Theodore, St. Sebastian, and St. Carlo (query St. Joseph).
One hardly knows whether most to regret the spirit which
was losing sight of the verities of religious history in imagina-
tive abstractions, or to praise the modesty and piety which
desired rather to be represented as kneeling before the Virgin
than in the discharge or among the insignia of important
offices of state.
As an " Adoration of the Magi," the picture is, of course,
sufficiently absurd : the St. Sebastian leans back in the corner
to be out of the way ; the three Magi kneel, without the
slightest appearance of emotion, to a Madonna seated in a
Venetian loggia of the fifteenth century, and three Venetian
servants behind bear their offerings in a very homely sack,
tied up at the mouth. As a piece of portraiture and artistical
composition, the work is altogether perfect, perhaps the best
piece of Tintoret's portrait-painting in existence. It is very
carefully and steadily wrought, and arranged with consum-
mate skill on a difficult plan. The, canvas is a long oblong, \
314 VENETIAN INDEX.
think about eighteen or twenty feet long, by about seven high ;
one might almost fancy the painter had been puzzled to bring
the piece into use, the figures being all thrown into positions
which a little diminish their height. The nearest chamber-
lain is kneeling, the two behind him bowing themselves
slightly, the attendants behind bowing lower, the Madonna
sitting, the St. Theodore sitting still lower on the steps at her
feet, and the St. Sebastian leaning back, so that all the lines
of the picture incline more or less from right to left as they
ascend. This slope, which gives unity to the detached groups,
is carefully exhibited by what a mathematician would call co-
ordinates,— the upright pillars of the loggia and the horizontal
clouds of the beautiful sky. The color is very quiet, but rich
and deep, the local tones being brought out with intense force,
and the cast shadows subdued, the manner being much more
that of Titian than of Tintoret. The sky appears full of light,
though it is as dark as the flesh of the faces ; and the forms of
its floating clouds, as well as of the hills over which they rise,
are drawn with a deep remembrance of reality. There are
hundreds of pictures of Tintoret's more amazing than this,
but I hardly know one that I more love.
The reader ought especially to study the sculpture round
the altar of the Capella del Eosario, as an example of the
abuse of the sculptor's art ; every accessory being labored out
with as much ingenuity and intense effort to turn sculpture
into painting, the grass, trees, and landscape being as far
realized as possible, and in alto-relievo. These bas-reliefs are
by various artists, and therefore exhibit the folly of the age,
not the error of an individual.
The following alphabetical list of the tombs in this church
which are alluded to as described in the text, with references
to the pages where they are mentioned, will save some trouble :
Cavalli, Jacopo, III. 82.
Cornaro, Marco, III. 11.
Dolfin, Giovanni, III. 78.
Giustiniani, Marco, I. 315.
Mocenigo, Giovanni, III. 89.
Mocenigo, Pietro, III, 89,
Mocenigo, Tomaso, I. 8, 26,
III. 84.
Morosini, Michele, III. 80.
Steno, Michele, III. 83.
Yendramin, Andrea, I, 27,
III. 88,
GIOVANNI E PAOLO. — GIULIANO. 315
GIOVANNI GRISOSTOMO, CHURCH OF ST. One of the most
important in Venice. It is early Renaissance, containing some
good sculpture, but chiefly notable as containing a noble
Sebastian del Piombo, and a John Bellini, which a few years
hence, unless it be " restored," will be esteemed one of the
most precious pictures in Italy, and among the most perfect
in the world. John Bellini is the only artist who appears to
me to have united, in equal and magnificent measures, justness
of drawing, nobleness of coloring, and perfect manliness of
treatment, with the purest religious feeling. He did, as far as
it is possible to do it, instinctively and unaffectedly, what the
Caracci only pretended to do. Titian colors better, but has
not his piety. Leonardo draws better, but has not his color.
Angelico is more heavenly, but has not his manliness, far less
hie powers of art.
GIOVANNI ELEMOSINARIO, CHURCH OF ST. Said to contain a
Titian and a Bonifazio. Of no other interest.
GIOVANNI IN BRAGOLA, CHURCH OF ST. A Gothic church of
the fourteenth century, small, but interesting, and said to
contain some precious works by Cima da Conegliano, and one
by John Bellini.
GIOVANNI Novo, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
GIOVANNI, S., SCUOLA DI. A fine example of the Byzantine
Eenaissance, mixed with remnants of good late Gothic. The
little exterior cortile is sweet in feeling, and Lazari praises
highly the work of the interior staircase.
GIUDECCA. The crescent-shaped island (or series of islands),
which forms the most northern extremity of the city of
Venice, though separated by a broad channel from the main
city. Commonly said 'to derive its name from the number of
Jews who lived upon it ; but Lazari derives it from the word
" Judicato," in Venetian dialect " Zudega," it having been in
old time " adjudged" as a kind of prison territory to the more
dangerous and turbulent citizens. It is now inhabited only by
the poor, and covered by desolate groups of miserable dwell-
ings, divided by stagnant canals.
Its two principal churches, the Redentore and St. Eufemia,
are named in their alphabetical order.
GIULIANO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
316 VENETIAN INDEX.
GIUSEPPE DI CASTELLO, CHUKCH OF ST. Said to contain a
Paul Veronese : otherwise of no importance.
GIUSTINA, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
GIUSTINIANI PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, now Albergo all'
Europa. Good late fourteenth century Gothic, but much
altered.
GIUSTINIANI, PALAZZO, next the Casa Foscari, on the Grand
Canal. Lazari, I know not on what authority, says that thn
palace was built by the Giustiniani family before 1428. It is
one of those founded directly on the Ducal Palace, together
with the Casa Foscari at its side : and there could have been
no doubt of their date on this ground ; but it would be inter-
esting, after what we have seen of the progress of the Ducal
Palace, to ascertain the exact year of the erection of any of
these imitations.
This palace contains some unusually rich detached windows,
full of tracery, of which the profiles are given in the Appendix,
under the title of the Palace of the Younger Foscari, it
being popularly reported to have belonged to the son of the
Doge.
GIUSTINIAN LOLIN, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of no im-
portance.
GRASSI PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, now Albergo all' Im-
perator d' Austria. Of no importance.
GREGORIO, CHURCH OF ST., on the Grand Canal. An impor-
tant church of the fourteenth century, now desecrated, but
still interesting. Its apse is on the little canal crossing from
the Grand Canal to the Giudecca, beside the Church of the
Salute, and is very characteristic of the rude ecclesiastical
Gothic contemporary with the Ducal Palace. The entrance to
its cloisters, from the Grand Canal, is somewhat later ; a noble
square door, with two windows on each side of it, the grandest
examples in Venice of the late window of the fourth order.
The cloister, to which this door gives entrance, is exactly
contemporary with the finest work of the Ducal Palace, circa
1350. It is the loveliest eortile I know in Venice ; its capitals
consummate in design and execution ; and the low wall on
which they stand showing remnants of sculpture unique, ag
far as I know, in such application.
GIUSEPPE Dl CASTELLO — LIBRERIA VECCHIA. 317
PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, III. 32.
There are several other palaces in Venice belonging to this
family, but none of any architectural interest.
J
JESUITI, CHURCH OF THE. The basest Eenaissance ; but worth
a visit in order to examine the imitations of curtains in white
marble inlaid with green.
It contains a Tintoret, " The Assumption," which I have
not examined ; and a Titian, " The Martyrdom of St. Law-
rence," originally, it seems to me, of little value, and now,
having been restored, of none.
L
LABIA PALAZZO, on the Canna Keggio. Of no importance.
LAZZARO DE' MEKDICANTI, CHURCH OF ST. Of no impor-
tance.
LIBRERIA VECCHIA. A graceful building of the central Renais-
sance, designed by Sansovino, 1536, and much admired by all
architects of the school. It was continued by Scamozzi, down
the whole side of St. Mark's Place, adding another story above
it, which modern critics blame as destroying the " eurithmia ;"
never considering that had the two low stories of the Library
been continued along the entire length of the Piazza, they
would have looked so low that the entire dignity of the square
would have been lost. As it is, the Library is left in its
originally good proportions, and the larger mass of the Pro-
curatie- Nuove forms a more majestic, though less graceful,
side for the great square.
But the real faults of the building are not in its number of
stories, but in the design of the parts. It is one of the grossest
examples of the base Eenaissance habit of turning keystones
into brackets, throwing them out in bold projection (not less
than a foot and a half) beyond the mouldings of the arch ; a
practice utterly barbarous, inasmuch as it evidently tends to
dislocate the entire arch, if any real weight were laid on the
extremity of the keystone ; and it is also a very characteristic
example of the vulgar and painful mode of filling spandrils
by naked figures in alto-relievo, leaning against the arch on
318
VENETIAN IM^
each side, and appearing as if they were continually in danger
of slipping off. Many of these figures have, however, some
merit in themselves ; and the whole building is graceful and
effective of its kind. The continuation of the Procuratie
Nuove, at the western extremity of ~St. Mark's Place (together
with various apartments in the great line of the Procuratie
Nuove) forms the " Royal Palace," the residence of the
Emperor when at Venice. This building is entirely modern,
built in 1810, in imitation of the Procuratie Nuove, and on
the site of Sansovino's Church of San Geminiano.
In this range of buildings, including the Royal Palace, the
Procuratie Nuove, the old Library, and the " Zecca" which is
connected with- them (the latter being an ugly building of very
modern date, not worth notice architecturally), there are many
most valuable pictures, among which I would especially direct
attention, first to those in the Zecca, namely, a beautiful and
strange Madonna, by Benedetto Diana ; two noble Bonifazios ;
and two groups, by Tintoret, of the Provveditori della Zecca,
by no means to be missed, whatever may be sacrificed to see
them, on account of the quietness and veracity of their un-
affected portraiture, and the absolute freedom from all vanity
either in the painter or in his subjects.
Next, in the " Antisala" of the old Library, observe the
" Sapienza" of Titian, in the centre of the ceiling ; a most
interesting work in the light brilliancy of its color, and the
resemblance to Paul Veronese. Then, in the great hall of the
old Library, examine the two large tintorets, " St. Mark sav-
ing a Saracen from Drowning," and the " Stealing of his
Body from Constantinople," both rude, but great (note in the
latter the dashing of the rain on the pavement, and running
of the water about the feet of the figures) : then in the narrow
spaces between the windows, there are some magnificent single
figures by Tintoret, among the finest things of the kind in
Italy, or in Europe. Finally, in the gallery of pictures in
the Palazzo Re"ale, among other good works of various kinds,
are two of the most interesting Bonifazios in Venice, the
"Children of Israel in their journeyings," in one of which, if
I recollect right, the quails are coming in flight across a sun-
set sky, forming one of the earliest instances I know of a
LIBEERIA VECCHIA — MANFRINI. 319
thoroughly natural and Turneresque effect being felt and ren>
dered by the old masters. The picture struck me chiefly from
this circumstance ; but, the" note-book in which I had described
it and its companion, having been lost on my way home, I can-
not now give a more special account of them, except that they
are long, full of crowded figures, and peculiarly light in color
and handling as compared with Bonifazio's work in general.
LiO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance, but said to contain a
spoiled Titian.
LIO, SALIZZADA DI ST., windows in, II. 252, 257.
LOREDAN, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, near the Kialto, II.
123, 393. Another palace of this name, on the Campo St.
Stefano, is of no importance.
LORENZO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
LUCA, CHURCH OF ST. Its campanile is of very interesting
and quaint early Gothic, and it is said to contain a Paul
Veronese, " St Luke and the Virgin." In the little Campiello
St. Luca, close by, is a very precious Gothic door, rich in
brickwork, of the thirteenth century ; and in the foundations
of the houses on the same side of the square, but at the other
end of it, are traceable some shafts and arches closely resem-
bling the work of the Cathedral of Murano, and evidently hav-
ing once belonged to some most interesting building.
LUCIA, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
M
MADDALENA, CHURCH OF STA. MARIA. Of no importance.
MLAIPIERO, PALAZZO, on the Campo St. M. Formosa, facing
the canal at its extremity. A very beautiful example of the
Byzantine Kenaissance. Note the management of color in its
inlaid balconies.
MANFRINI, PALAZZO. The architecture is of no interest; and
as it is in contemplation to allow the collection of pictures to
be sold, I shall take no note of them. But even if they should
remain, there are few of the churches in Venice where the
traveller had not better spend his time than in this gallery; as,
with the exception of Titian's " Entombment," one or two
Giorgiones, and the little John Bellini (St. Jerome), the pic-
tures are all of a kind which may be seen elsewhere,
320
VENETIAN INDEX.
MANGILI VALMARANA, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of no
importance.
MANIN, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.
MAXZONI, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, near the Church of
the Carita. A perfect and very rich example of Byzantine
Renaissance: its warm yellow marbles are magnificent.
MARCILLAN, CHURCH OF ST. Said to contain a Titian, "Tobit
and the Angel:" otherwise of no importance.
MARIA, CHURCHES OF STA. See FORMOSA, MATER DOMINI,
MIRACOLI, ORTO, SALUTE, and ZOBEXIGO.
MARCO, SCUOLA DI SAN, III. 16.
MARK, CHURCH OF ST., history of, II. 57; approach to, II. 71;
general teaching of, II. 112, 116; measures of facade of, II.
126; balustrades of, II. 244, 247; cornices of, I. 311; horseshoe
arches of, II. 249; entrances of, II. 271, III. 245; shafts of, II.
384; base in baptistery of, I. 290; mosaics in atrium of, II. 112;
mosaics in cupola of, II. 114, III. 192; lily capitals of, II. 137;
Plates illustrative of (Vol. II.), VI. VII. figs. 9, 10, 11, VIII.
figs. 8, 9, 12, 13, 15, IX. XI. fig. 1, and Plate III. Vol. III.
MARK, SQUARE OF ST. (Piazza di San Marco), anciently a
garden, II. 58; general effect of, II. 66, 116; plan of, II.
282.
MARTINO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
MATER DOMINI, CHURCH OF ST. MARIA. It contains two im-
portant pictures: one over the second altar on the right, "St.
Christina," by Vincenzo Catena, a very lovely example of the
Venetian religious school; and, over the north transept door,
the "Finding of the Cross," by Tintoret, a carefully painted
and attractive picture, but by no means a good specimen" of
the master, as far as regards power of conception. He does
not seem to have entered into his subject. There is no wonder,
no rapture, no entire devotion in any of the figures. They
are only interested and pleased in a mild way; and the kneel-
ing woman who hands the nails to a man stooping forward to
receive them on the right hand, does so with the air of a per-
son saying, "You had better take care of them; they may be
wanted another time." This general coldness in expression is
much increased by the presence of several figures on the right
and left, introduced lor the sake of portraiture merely; and
MANGILI VALMARANA — MICHELE IX ISOLA. 321
the reality, as well as the feeling, of the scene is destroyed by
our seeing one of the youngest and weakest of the women with
a huge cross lying across her knees, the whole weight of it
resting upon her. As might have been expected, where the
conception is so languid, the execution is little delighted in-
it is throughout steady and powerful, but in no place affec-
tionate, and in no place impetuous. If Tintoret had always
painted in this way, he would have sunk into a mere me-
chanist. It is, however, a genuine and tolerably well pre*
served specimen, and its female figures are exceedingly grace-
ful; that of St. Helena very queenly, though by no means
agreeable in feature. Among the male portraits on the left
there is one different from the usual types which occur either
in Venetian paintings or Venetian populace; it is carefully
painted, and more like a Scotch Presbyterian minister, than a
Greek. The background is chiefly composed of architecture,
white, remarkably uninteresting in color, and still more so in
form. This is to be noticed as one of the unfortunate results
of the Renaissance teaching at this period. Had Tintoret
backed his Empress Helena with Byzantine architecture, the
picture might have been one of the most gorgeous he ever
painted.
MATER DOMINI, CAMPO DI STA. MARIA, II. 261. A most in-
teresting little piazza, surrounded by early Gothic houses, once
of singular beauty; the arcade at its extremity, of fourth order
windows, drawn in my folio work, is one of the earliest and
loveliest of its kind in Venice; and in the houses at the side is
a group of second order windows with their intermediate
crosses, all complete, and well worth careful examination.
MICHELE IN ISOLA, CHURCH OF ST. On the island between
Venice and Murano. The little Cappella Emilian.a at the side
of it has been much admired, but it would be difficult to find
a building more feelingless or ridiculous. It is more like a
German summer-house, or angle turret, than a chapel, and
may be briefly described as a bee-hive set on a low hexagonal
tower, with dashes of stone-work about its windows like the
flourishes of an idle penman.
The cloister of this church is pretty; and the attached
cemetery is worth entering, for the sake of feeling the
322 VENETIAN INDEX.
strangeness of the quiet sleeping ground in the midst of
the sea.
MICHIEL DALLE COLOGNE, PALAZZO. Of no importance.
MHSTELLI, PALAZZO. In the Corte del Maltese, at St. Paternian.
It has a spiral external staircase, Very picturesque, but of the
fifteenth century and without merit.
MIRACOLI, CHURCH OF STA. MARIA DEI. The most interesting
and finished example in Venice of the Byzantine Kenaissance,
and one of the most important in Italy of the cinque-cento
style. All its sculptures should be examined with great care,
as the best possible examples of a bad style. Observe, for
instance, that in spite of the beautiful work on the square
pillars which support the gallery at the west end, they have
no more architectural effect than two wooden posts. The
same kind of failure in boldness of purpose exists through-
out; and the building is, in fact, rather a small museum of
unmeaning, though refined sculpture, than a piece of archi-
tecture.
Its grotesques are admirable examples of the base Raphael-
esque design examined above, III. 136. Note especially the
children's heads tied up by the hair, in the lateral sculptures
at the top of the altar steps. A rude workman, who could
hardly have carved the head at all, might have allowed this or
any other mode of expressing discontent with his own doings;
but the man who could carve a child's head so perfectly must
have been wanting in all human feeling, to cut it off, and tie
it by the hair to a vine leaf. Observe, in the Ducal Palace,
though far ruder in skill, the heads always emerge from the
leaves, they are never tied to them.
MISERICORDIA, CHURCH OF. The church itself is nothing, and
contains nothing worth the traveller's time; but the Albergo
de' Confratelli della Misericordia at its side is a very interest-
ing and beautiful relic of the Gothic Renaissance. Lazari says,
"del secolo xiv.;" but I believe it to be later. Its traceries
are very curious and rich, and the sculpture of its capitals very
fine for the late time. Close to it, on the right-hand side of
the canal which is crossed by the wooden bridge, is one of the
richest Gothic doors in Venice, remarkable for the appearance
of antiquity in the general design and stiffne*" of its figures,
MICHELE IN ISOLA — MOISE. 323
though it bears its date 1505. Its extravagant crockets are
almost the only features which, but for this written date,
would at first have confessed its lateness; but, on examination,
the figures will be found as bad and spiritless as they are ap-
parently archaic, and completely exhibiting the Kenaissance
palsy of imagination.
The general effect is, however, excellent, the whole arrange-
ment having been borrowed from earlier work.
The action of the statue of the Madonna, who extends her
robe to shelter a group of diminutive figures, representative of
the Society for whose house the sculpture was executed, may
be also seen in most of the later Venetian figures of the Virgin
which occupy similar situations. The image of Christ is
placed in a medallion on her breast, thus fully, though C9n-
ventionally, expressing the idea of self-support which is so
often partially indicated by the great religious painters in their
representations of the infant Jesus.
MOISE, CHURCH OF ST., III. 124. Notable as one of the basest
examples of the basest school of the Kenaissance. It contains
one important picture, namely * Christ washing the Disciples'
Feet," by Tintoret; on the left side of the chapel, north of the
choir. This picture has been originally dark, is now much
faded — in parts, I believe, altogether destroyed — and is hung
in the worst light of a chapel, where, on a sunny day at noon,
one could not easily read without a candle. I cannot, there-
fore, give much information respecting it; but it is certainly
one of the least successful of the painter's works, and both
careless and unsatisfactory in its composition as well as its
color. One circumstance is noticeable, as in a considerable
degree detracting from the interest of most of Tintoret's re-
presentations of our Saviour with his disciples. He never
loses sight of the fact that all were poor, and the latter igno-
rant; and while he never paints a senator, or a saint once
thoroughly canonized, except as a gentleman, he is very care-
ful to paint the Apostles, in their living intercourse with the
Saviour, in such a manner that the spectator may see in an
instant, as the Pharisee did of old, that they were unlearned
and ignorant men; and, whenever we find them in a room, it
is always such a one as would be inhabited by the lower classes.
324
VENETIAN INDEX.
There seems some violation of this practice in the dais, or
flight of steps, at the top of which the Saviour is placed in the
present picture; but we are quickly reminded that the guests'
chamber or upper room ready prepared was not likely to have
been in a palace, by the humble furniture upon the floor, con-
sisting of a tub with a copper saucepan in it, a coffee-pot, and
a pair of bellows, curiously associated with a symbolic cup with
a wafer, which, however, is in an injured part of the canvas,
and may have been added by the priests. I am totally unable
to state what the background of the picture is or has been;
and the only point farther to be noted about it is the solemnity,
which, in spite of the familiar and homely circumstances above
noticed, the painter has given to the scene, by placing the
_ Saviour, in the act of washing the feet of Peter, at the top of
a circle of steps, on which the other Apostles kneel in adora-
tion and astonishment.
MOKO, PALAZZO. See OTHELLO.
MOROSIXI, PALAZZO, near the Ponte dell' Ospedaletto, at San
Giovannie Paolo. Outside it is not interesting, though the
gateway shows remains of brickwork of the thirteenth century.
Its interior court is singularly beautiful; the staircase of early
fourteenth century Gothic has originally been superb, and the
window in the angle above is the most perfect that I know in
Venice of the kind; the lightly sculptured coronet is exqui-
sitely introduced at the top of its spiral shaft.
This palace still belongs to the Morosini family, to whose
present representative, the Count Carlo Morosini, the reader
is indebted for the note on the character of his ancestors,
above, III. 213.
MOROSINI, PALAZZO, at St. Stefano. Of no importance.
N
NANI-MOCENIGO, PALAZZO. (Now Hotel Daniel i.) A glorious
example of the central Gothic, nearly contemporary with the
finest part of the Ducal Palace. Though less impressive in
effect than the Casa Foscari or Casa Bernardo, it is of purer
architecture than either: and quite unique in the delicacy of
the form of the cusps in the central group of windows, which
are shaped like broad scimitars, the upper foil of the windows
MOISE — ORTO. 325
being very small. If the traveller will compare these windows
with the neighboring traceries of the Ducal Palace, he will
easily perceive the peculiarity.
NICOLO DEL LIDO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
NOME DI GESU, CHURCH OF THE. Of no importance.
0
ORFANT, CHURCH OF THE. Of no importance.
ORTO, CHURCH OF STA. MARIA, DELL'. An interesting example
of Renaissance Gothic, the traceries of the windows being very
rich and quaint.
It contains four most important Tintorets: "The Last
Judgment," "The Worship of the Golden Calf," "The Pre-
sentation of the Virgin," and "Martyrdom of St. Agnes."
The first two are among his largest and mightiest works, but
grievously injured by damp and neglect; and unless the travel-
ler is accustomed to decipher the thoughts in a picture patient-
ly, he need not hope to derive any pleasure from them. But
no pictures will better reward a resolute study. The following
account of the " Last Judgment," given in the second volume
of " Modern Painters," will be useful in enabling the traveller
to enter into the meaning of the picture, but its real power is
only to be felt by patient examination of it.
" By Tintoret only has this unimaginable event (the Last
Judgment) been grappled with in its Verity; not typically nor
symbolically, but as they may see it who shall not sleep, but be
changed. Only one traditional circumstance he has received,
with Dante and Michael Angelo, the Boat of the Condemned;
but the impetuosity of his mind bursts out even in the adop-
tion of this image; he has not stopped at the scowling ferry-
man of the one, nor at the sweeping blow and demon draggingj'
of the other, but, seized Hylas like by the limbs, and tearing
up the earth in his agony, the victim is dashed into his
destruction; nor is it the sluggish Lethe, nor the fiery lake,
that bears the cursed vessel, but the oceans of the earth and
the waters of the firmament gathered into one white, ghastly
cataract; the river of the wrath of God, roaring down into the
gulf where the world has melted with its fervent heat, choked
with the ruins of nations, and the limbs of its corpses tossed
326
VENETIAN INDEX.
out of its whirling, like water-wheels. Bat-like, out of the
holes and caverns and shadows of the earth, the bones gather,
and the clay heaps heave, rattling and adhering into half-
kneaded anatomies, that crawl, and startle, and struggle up
among the putrid weeds, with the clay clinging to their clotted
hair, and their heavy eyes sealed by the earth darkness yet,
like his of old who went his way unseeing to the Siloam Pool;
shaking off one by one the dreams of the prison-house, hardly
hearing the clangor of the trumpets of the armies of God,
blinded yet more, as they awake, by the white light of the new
Heaven, until the great vortex of the four winds bears up their
bodies to the judgment seat; the Firmament is all full of them,
a very dust of human souls, that drifts, and floats, and falls
into the interminable, inevitable light; the bright clouds are
darkened with them as with thick snow, currents of atom life
in the arteries of heaven, now soaring up slowly, and higher
and higher still, till the eye and the thought can follow no
farther, borne up, wingless, by their inward faith and by the
angel powers invisible, now hurled in countless drifts of horror
before the breath of their condemnation."
Note in the opposite picture the way the clouds are wrapped
about in the distant Sinai.
The figure of the little Madonna in the "Presentation"
should be compared with Titian's in his picture of the same
subject in the Academy. I prefer Tintoret's infinitely: and
note how much finer is the feeling with which Tintoret has
relieved the glory round her head against the pure sky, than
that which influenced Titian in encumbering his distance with
architecture.
The "Martyrdom of St. Agnes "was a lovely picture. It
has been "restored" since I saw it.
OSPEDALETTO, CHURCH OF THE. The most monstrous example
of the Grotesque Renaissance which there is in Venice; the
sculptures on its facade representing masses of diseased figures
and swollen fruit.
It is almost worth devoting an hour to the successive exam-
ination of five buildings, as illustrative of the last degradatior
of the Renaissance. San Mois6 is the most clumsy, Sant
Maria Zobenigo the most impious, St. Eustachio the mos
ORTO — PIETRO. 32?
ridiculous, the- Ospedaletto the most monstrous, and the head
at Santa Maria Formosa the most foul.
OTHELLO, HOUSE OF, at the Carmmi. The researches of Mr.
Brown into the origin of the play of " Othello " have, I think,
determined that Shakspeare wrote on definite historical
grounds; and that Othello may be in many points identified
with Christopher Moro, the lieutenant of the republic at
Cyprus, in 1508. See "Kagguagli su Maria Sanuto," i.
252.
His palace was standing till very lately, a Gothic building
of the fourteenth century, of which Mr. Brown possesses a
drawing. It is now destroyed, and a modern square-windowed
house built on its site. A statue, said to be a portrait of Moro,
but a most paltry work, is set in a niche in the modern wall.
PANTALEONE, CHURCH OF ST. Said to contain a Paul Veronese;
otherwise of no importance.
PATERNIAN, CHURCH OF ST. Its little leaning tower forms an
interesting object as the traveller sees it from the narrow canal
which passes beneath the Porte San Paternian. The two
arched lights of the belfry appear of very early workmanship,
probably of the beginning of the thirteenth century.
PESARO PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. The most powerful and
impressive in effect of all the palaces of the Grotesque Renais-
sance. The heads upon its foundation are very characteristic
of the period, but there is more genius in them than usual.
Some of the mingled expressions of faces and grinning casques
are very clever.
PIAZZETTA, pillars of, see Final Appendix under head "Capital."
The two magnificent blocks, of marble brought from St. Jean
d'Acre, which form one of the principal ornaments of the
Piazzetta, are Greek sculpture of the sixth century, and will
be described in my folio work.
PIETA, CHURCH OF THE. Of no importance. »
PIETRO, CHURCH OF ST., at Murano. Its pictures, once valu-
able, are now hardly worth examination, having been spoiled
by neglect.
PIETRO, Di CASTELLO, CHURCH OF ST., I. 7, 361. It is said to
328 VENETIAN INDEX.
contain a Paul Veronese, and I suppose the so-called " Chair
of St. Peter " must be worth examining.
PISANI, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. The latest Venetian
Gothic, just passing into Eenaissance. The capitals of the ;
first floor windows are, however, singularly spirited and grace-
ful, very daringly undercut, and worth careful examination.
The Paul Veronese, once the glory of this palace, is, I believe, \
not likely to remain in Venice. The other picture in the same •
room, the " Death of Darius," is of no value.
PISANI, PALAZZO, at St. Stefano. Late Kenaissance, and of no
merit, but grand in its colossal proportions, especially when
seen from the narrow canal at its side, which terminated by
the apse of the Church of San Stefano, is one of the most
picturesque and impressive little pieces of water scenery in
Venice.
POLO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance, except as an example
• of the advantages accruing from restoration. M. Lazari says
of it, "Before this church was modernized, its principal
chapel was adorned with Mosaics, and possessed a pala of
silver gilt, of Byzantine workmanship, which is now lost."
POLO, SQUARE OF ST. (Campo San Polo.) A large and im-
portant square, rendered interesting chiefly by three palaces
on the side of it opposite the church, of central Gothic (1360),
and fine of their time, though small. One of their capitals
has been given in Plate II. of this volume, fig. 12. They are
remarkable as being decorated with sculptures of the Gothic
time, in imitation of Byzantine ones; the period being marked
by the dog-tooth and cable being used instead of the dentil
round the circles.
POLO, PALAZZO, at San G. Grisostomo (the house of Marco Polo)/
II. 139. Its interior court is full of interest, showing fragments
of the old building in every direction, cornices, windows, and
doors, of almost every period, mingled among modern rebuild-
ing and restoration of all degrees of dignity.
PORTA DELLA CARTA, II. 302.
PRIULI, PALAZZO. A most important and beautiful early Gothic
Palace, at San Severe; the main entrance is from the Funda-
mento San Severe, but the principal facade is on the other
side, towards the canal. The entrance has been grievously
PIETRO — RIALTO. 320
defaced, having had winged lions filling the spandrils of its
pointed arch, of which only feeble traces are now left, the
fagade has very early fourth order windows in the lower story,
and above, the beautiful range of fifth order windows drawn
at the bottom of Plate XVIII. Vol. II., where the heads of the
fourth order range are also seen (note their inequality, the
larger one at the flank). This Palace has two most interesting
traceried angle windows also, which, however, I believe are
later than those on the fagade; and finally, a rich and bold
interior staircase.
PROCURATIE NUOVE, see " LiBRERiA" VECCHiA: A graceful
series buildings, of late fifteenth century design, forming the
northern side of St. Mark's Place, but of no particular interest.
QUERIST, PALAZZO, now the Beccherie, II. 255, III. 234.
R
RAFFAELLE, CHIESA DELL' ANGELO. Said to contain a Bonifazio,
otherwise of no importance..
REDEKTORE, CHURCH OF THE, II. 378. It contains three inter-
esting John Bellinis, and also, in the sacristy, a most beautiful
Paul Veronese.
REMER, CORTE DEL, house in. II. 251.
REZZONICO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of the Grotesque
Renaissance time, but less extravagant than usual.
RIALTO, BRIDGE OF THE. The best building raised in the time
of the Grotesque Renaissance; very noble in its simplicity, in
its proportions, and in its masonry. Note especially the
grand way in which the oblique archstones rest on the but-
ments of the bridge, safe, palpably both to the sense and eye:
note also the sculpture of the Annunciation on the southern
side of it; how beautifully arranged, so as to give more light-
ness and a grace to the arch — the dove, flying towards the
Madonna, forming the keystone, — and thus the whole action
of the figures being parallel to the curve of the arch, while all
the masonry is at right angles to it. Note, finally, one circum-
stance which gives peculiar firmness to the figure of the angel,
and associates itself with the general expression of strength in
330 VENETIAN INDEX.
the whole building; namely that the sole of the advanced foot
is set perfectly level, as if placed on the ground, instead of
being thrown back behind like a heron's, as in most modern
figures of this kind.
The sculptures themselves are not good; but these pieces of
feeling in them are very admirable. The two figures on the
other side, St. Mark and St. Theodore, are inferior, though all
by the same sculptor, Girolamo Campagna.
The bridge was built by Antonio da Ponte, in 1588. It was
anciently of wood, with a drawbridge in the centre : a repre-
sentation of which may be seen in one of Carpaccio's pictures
at the Accademia delle Belle Arti: and the traveller should
observe that the interesting effect, both of this and the Bridge
of Sighs, depends in great part on their both being more than
bridges; the one a covered passage, the other a row of shops,
sustained on an arch. No such effect can be produced merely
by the masonry of the roadway itself.
Rio DEL PALAZZO, II. 282.
Rocco, CAMPIELLO DI SAN, windows in, II. 258.
Rocco, CHURCH OF ST. Notable only for the most interesting
pictures by Tintoret which it contains, namely:
1. San Rocco before the Pope. (On the left of the door as
we eater.) A delightful picture in his best manner, but not
much labored; and, like several other pictures in this churcl ,
it seems to me to have been executed at some period of the
painter's life when he was either in ill health, or else had got
into a mechanical way of painting, from having made too little
reference to nature for a long time. There is something stiff
and forced in the white draperies on both sides, and a general
character about the whole which I can feel better than I can
describe; but which, if I had been the painter's physician,
would have immediately caused me to order him to shut up
his painting-room, and take a voyage to the Levant, and back
again. The figure of the Pope is, however, extremely beauti-
ful, and is not unworthy, in its jewelled magnificence, here
dark against the sky, of comparison with the figure of the high
priest in the "Presentation," in the Scuola di San Rocco.
2. Annunciation. (On the other side of the door, on enter-
ing. ) A most disagreeable and dead picture, having all the
El ALTO — EOCCO. 331
faults of the age, and none of the merits of the painter. It
must be a matter of future investigation to me, what could
cause the fall of his mind from a conception so great and so
fiery as that of the "Annunciation" in the Scuola di San
Bocco, to this miserable reprint of an idea worn out centuries
before. One of the most inconceivable things in it, considered
as the work of Tintoret, is that where the angel's robe drifts
away behind his limb, one cannot tell by the character of the
outline, or by the tones of the color, whether the cloud comes
in before the robe, or whether the robe cuts upon the cloud.
The Virgin is uglier than that of the Scuola, and not half so
real; and^he draperies are crumpled in the most commonplace
and ignoble folds. It is a picture well worth study, as an ex-
ample of the extent to which the greatest mind may be be-
trayed by the abuse of its powers, and the neglect of its proper
food in the study of nature.
3. Pool of Bethesda. (On the right side of the church, in its
centre, the lowest of the two pictures which occupy the wall. )
A noble work, but eminently disagreeable, as must be all
pictures of this subject; and with the same character in it of
undefinable want, which I have noticed in the two preceding
works. The main figure in it is the cripple, who has taken
up his bed; but the whole effect of this action is lost by his
not turning to Christ, but flinging it on his shoulder like a
triumphant porter with a huge load; and the corrupt Eenais-
sance architecture, among which the figures are crowded, is
both ugly in itself, and much too small for them. It is worth
noticing, for the benefit of persons who find fault with the
perspective of the Pre-Raphaelites, that the perspective of the
brackets beneath these pillars is utterly absurd; and that, in
fine, the presence or absence of perspective has nothing to do
with the merits of a great picture: not that the perspective of
the Pre-Raphaelites is false in any case that I have examined,
the objection being just as untenable as it is ridiculous.
4. San Eocco in the Desert. (Above the last-named picture. )
A single recumbent figure in a not very interesting landscape,
deserving less attention than a picture of St. Martin just op-
posite to it, — a noble and knightly figure on horseback by
Pordenone, to which I cannot pay a greater compliment than
332 TEXETIAX IXDEX.
by saying that I was a considerable time in doubt whether or
not it -was another Tintoret.
5. San JRocco in the Hospital. (On the right-hand side of
the altar.) There are four vast pictures by Tintoret in the
dark choir of this church, not only important, by their size
(each being some twenty-five feet long by ten feet high), but
also elaborate compositions; and remarkable, one for its extra-
ordinary landscape, and the other as the most studied picture
in which the painter has introduced horses in violent action.
In order to show what waste of human mind there is in these
dark churches of Venice, it is worth recording that, as I was
examining these pictures, there came in a party of eighteen
German tourists, not hurried, nor jesting among themselves
as large parties often do, but patiently submitting to their
cicerone, and evidently desirous of doing their duty as intelli-
gent travellers. They sat down for a long time on the benches
of the nave, looked a little at the " Pool of Bethesda," walked
up into the choir and there heard a lecture of considerable
length from their valet-de-place upon some subject connected
with the altar itself, which, being in German, I did not under-
stand; they then turned and went slowly out of the church,
not one of the whole eighteen ever giving a single glance to
any of the four Tintorets, and only one of them, as far as I
saw, even raising his eyes to the walls on which they hung,
and immediately withdrawing them, with a jaded and non-
chalant expression easily interpretable into " Nothing but old
black pictures." The two Tintorets above noticed, at the end
of the church, were passed also without a glance; and this
neglect is not because the pictures have nothing in them ca-
pable of arresting the popular mind, but simply because they
are totally in the dark, or confused among easier and more
prominent objects of attention. This picture, which I have
called "St. Rocco in the Hospital,'' shows him, I suppose, in
his general ministrations at such places, and is one of the
usual representations of a disgusting subject from which
neither Orcagna nor Tintoret seems ever to have shrunk. It
is a very noble picture, carefully composed and highly wrought;
but to me gives no pleasure, first, on account of its subject,
secondly, on account of its dull brown tone all over, — it being
ROCCO, CHURCH OF ST. 333
impossible, or nearly so, in such a scene, and at all events in-
consistent with its feeling, to introduce vivid color of any kind.
So it is a brown study of diseased limbs in a close room.
6. Cattle Piece. (Above the picture last described. ) I can
give no other name to this picture, whose subject I can neither
guess nor discover, the picture being in the dark, and the
guide-books leaving me in the same position. All I can make
out of it is, that there is a noble landscape with cattle and
figures. It seems to me the best landscape of Tintoret's in
Venice, except the '*' Flight into Egypt;" and is even still more
interesting from its savage character, the principal trees being
pines, something like Titian's in his " St. Francis receiving
the Stigmata," and chestnuts on the slopes and in the hollows
of the hills; the animals also seem first-rate. But it is too
high, too much faded, and too much in the dark to be made
out. It seems never to have been rich in color, rather cool
and grey, and very full of light.
7. Finding of Body of San Rocco. (On the left-hand side
of the altar.) An elaborate, but somewhat confused picture,
with a flying angel in a blue drapery; but it seemed to me alto-
gether uninteresting, or perhaps requiring more study than I
was able to give it.
8. San Rocco in Campo d' Armata. So this picture is call-
ed by the sacristan. I could see no San Eocco in it; nothing
but a wild group of horses and warriors in the most magnifi-
cent confusion of fall and flight ever painted by man. They
seem all dashed different ways as if by a whirlwind; and a
whirlwind there must be, or a thunderbolt, behind them, for a
huge tree is torn up and hurled into the air beyond the central
figure, as if it were a shivered lance. Two of the horses meet
in the midst, as if in a tournament; but in madness of fear,
not in hostility; on the horse to the right is a standard-bearer,
who stoops as from some foe behind him, with the lance
laid across his saddle-bow, level, and the flag stretched out be-
hind him as he flies, like the sail of a ship drifting from its
mast; the central horseman, who meets the shock, of storm, or
enemy, whatever it be, is hurled backwards from his seat, like
a stone from a sling; and this figure with the shattered tree
trunk behind it, is the most noble part of the picture. There
334
VENETIAX INDEX.
is another grand horse on the right, however, also in full ac-
tion. Two gigantic figures on foot, on the left, meant to be
nearer than the others, would, it seems to me, have injured the
picture, had they been clearly visible; but time has reduced
them to perfect subordination.
Rocco, SCUOLA DI SAX, bases of, I. 291, 431; soffit ornaments of,
I. 337. An interesting building of the early Eenaissance
(1517), passing into Eoman Eenaissance. The wreaths of leaf-
age about its shafts are wonderfully delicate and fine, though
misplaced.
As regards the pictures which it contains, it is one of the three
most precious buildings in Italy; buildings, I mean, consist-
ently decorated with a series of paintings at the time of their
erection, and still exhibiting that series in its original order. I
suppose there can be little question, but that the three most
important edifices of this kind in Italy are the Sistine Chapel,
the Campo Santo of Pisa, and the Scuola di San Eocco at
Venice: the first is painted by Michael Angelo; the second by
Orcagna, Benozzo Gozzoli, Pietro Laurati, and several other
men whose works are as rare as they are precious; and the
third by Tintoret.
Whatever the traveller may miss in Venice, he should there-
fore give unembarrassed attention and unbroken time to the
Scuola di San Eocco; and I shall, accordingly, number the pic-
tures, and note in them, one by one, what seemed to me most
worthy of observation.
There are sixty-two in all, but eight of these are merely of
children or children's heads, and two of unimportant figures.
The number of valuable pictures is fifty-two; arranged on the
walls and ceilings of three rooms, so badly lighted, in conse-
quence of the admirable arrangements of the Eenaissance archi-
tect, that it is only in the early morning that some of the pictures
can be seen at all, nor can they ever be seen but imperfectly.
They were all painted, however, for their places in the dark, and,
as compared with Tintoret's other works, are therefore, for the
most part, nothing more than vast sketches, made to produce,
under a certain degree of shadow, the effect of finished pic-
tures. Their treatment is thus to be considered as a kind of
scene-painting; differing from ordinary scene-painting only in
ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN". 335
this, that the effect aimed at is not that of a natural scene but
a perfect picture. They differ in this respect from all other
existing works; for there is not, as far as I know, any other
instance in which a great master has consented to work for
a room plunged into almost total obscurity. It is probable
that none but Tintoret would have undertaken the task, and
most fortunate that he was forced to it. For in this magnifi-
cent scene-painting we have, of course, more wonderful exam-
ples, both of his handling, and knowledge of effect, than could
ever have been exhibited in finished pictures; while the neces-
sity of doing much with few strokes keeps his mind so com-
pletely on the stretch throughout the work (while yet the
velocity of production prevented his being wearied), that no
other series of his works exhibits powers so exalted. On the
other hand, owing to the velocity and coarseness of the paint-
ing, it is more liable to injury through drought or damp; and,
as the walls have been for years continually running down with
rain, and what little sun gets into the place contrives to fall all
day right on one or other of the pictures, they are nothing but
wrecks of what they were; and the ruins of paintings originally
coarse are not likely ever to be attractive to the public mind.
Twenty or thirty years ago they were taken down to be re-
touched; but the man to whom the task was committed provi-
dentially died, and only one of them was spoiled. I have
found traces of his work upon another, but not to an extent
very seriously destructive. The rest of the sixty-two, or, at
any rate, all that are in the upper room, appear entirely intact.
Although, as compared with his other works, they are all
very scenic in execution, there are great differences in their de-
grees of finish; and, curiously enough, some on the ceilings and
others in the darkest places in the lower room are very nearly
finished pictures, while the "Agony in the Garden," which is in
one of the best lights in the upper room, appears to have been
painted in a couple of hours with a broom for a brush.
For the traveller's greater convenience, I shall give a rude
plan of the arrangement, and list of the subjects, of each group
of pictures before examining them in detail.
336 VENETIAN INDEX.
* First Group. On the walls of the room on the ground floor.
1
1. Annunciation. 5. The Magdalen.
2. Adoration of Magi. 6. St. Mary of Egypt.
3. Flight into Egypt. 7. Circumcision.
4. Massacre of Innocents. 8. Assumption of Virgin.
At the turn of the stairs leading to the upper room:
9. Visitation.
1. T/ie Annunciation. This, which first strikes the eye, is a
very just representative of the whole group, the execution being
carried to the utmost limits of boldness consistent with com-
pletion. It is a well-known picture, and need not therefore be
specially described, but one or two points in it require notice.
The face of the Virgin is very disagreeable to the spectator from
below, giving the idea of a woman about thirty, who had never
been handsome. If the face is untouched, it is the only in-
stance I have ever seen of Tintoret's failing in an intended
effect, for, when seen near, the face is comely and youthful, and
expresses only surprise, instead of the pain and fear of which
it bears the aspect in the distance. I could not get near enough
to see whether it had b.een retouched. It looks like Tintoret's
work, though rather hard; but, as there are unquestionable
marks in the retouching of this picture, it is possible that some
slight restoration of lines supposed to be faded, entirely alter
ROCCO, SCUOLA Dl SAff. 33?
the distant expression of the face. One of the evident pieces
of repainting is the scarlet of the Madonna's lap, which is
heavy and lifeless. A far more injurious one is the strip of sky
seen through the doorway by which the angel enters, which has
originally been of the deep golden color of the distance on the
left, and which the blundering restorer has daubed over with
whitish blue, so that it looks like a bit of the wall; luckily
he has not touched the outlines of the angel's black wings, on'
which the whole expression of the picture depends. This
angel and the group of small cherubs above form a great swing-
ing chain, of which the dove representing the Holy Spirit
forms the bend. The angels in their flight seem to be attach-
ed to this as the train of fire is to a rocket; all of them appear,
ing to have swooped down with the swiftness of a falling star.
2. Adoration of the Magi. The most finished picture in the
Scuola, except the " Crucifixion," and perhaps the most de-
lightful of the whole. It unites every source of pleasure that a
picture can possess: the highest elevation of principal subject,
mixed with the lowest detail of picturesque incident ; the dig-
nity of the highest ranks of men, opposed to the simplicity of
the lowest ; the quietness and serenity of an incident in cot-
tage life, contrasted with the turbulence of troops of horsemen
and the spiritual power of angels. The placing of the two
doves as principal points' of light in the front of the picture,
in order to remind the spectator of the poverty of the mother
whose child is receiving the offerings and adoration of three
monarchs, is one of Tintoret's master touches ; the whole
scene, indeed, is conceived in his happiest manner. Nothing
can be at once more humble or more dignified than the bearing
of the kings ; and there is a sweet reality given to the whole
incident by the Madonna's stooping forward and lifting her
hand in admiration of the vase of gold which has been set
before the Christ, though she does so with such gentleness and
quietness that her dignity is not in the least injured by the
simplicity of the action. As if to illustrate the means by which
the Wise men were brought from the East, the whole picture
is nothing but a large star, of which Christ is the centre ; all
the figures, even the timbers of the roof, radiate from the small
bright figure on which the countenances of the flying angels
338
INDEX.
are bent, the star itself, gleaming through the timbers above,
being quite subordinate. The composition would almost be
too artificial were it not broken by the luminous distance where
the troop of horsemen are waiting for the kings. These, with
a dog running at full speed, at once interrupt the symmetry of
the lines, and form a point of relief from the over concentra-
tion of all the rest of the action.
3. Flight into Egypt. One of the principal figures here is
the donkey. I have never seen any of the nobler animals —
lion, or leopard, or horse, or dragon — made so sublime as this
quiet head of the domestic ass, chiefly owing to the grand
motion in the nostril and writhing in the ears. The space of
the picture is chiefly occupied by lovely landscape, and the
Madonna and St. Joseph are pacing their way along a shady
path upon the banks of a river at the side of the picture. I
had not any conception, until I got near, how much pains had
been taken with the Virgin's head; its expression is as sweet
and as intense as that of any of Raffaelle's, its reality far
greater. The painter seems to have intended that everything
should be subordinate to the beauty of this single head; and
the work is a wonderful proof of the way in which a vast field
of canvas may be made conducive to the interest of a single
figure. This is partly accomplished by slightness of painting,
so that on close examination, while there is everything to as-
tonish in the masterly handling and purpose, there is not much
perfect or very delightful painting; in fact, the two figures are
treated like the living figures in a scene at the theatre, and
finished to perfection, while the landscape is painted as hastily
as the scenes, and with the same kind of opaque size color. It
has, however, suffered as much as any of the series, and it is
hardly fair to judge of its .tones and colors in its present state.
4. Massacre of the Innocents. The following account of this
picture, given in "Modern Painters," maybe useful to the
traveller, and is therefore here repeated. "I have before
alluded to the painfulness of Raffaelle's treatment of the Mas-
sacre of the Innocents. Fuseli affirms of it, that, ' in dramatic
gradation he disclosed all the mother through every image of
pity and terror.' If this be so, I think the philosophical spirit
has prevailed over the imaginative. The imagination never
ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 339
errs; it sees all that is, and all the relations and bearings of it;
but it would not have confused the mortal frenzy of maternal
terror, with various development of maternal character. Fear,
rage, and agony, at their utmost pitch, sweep away all charac-
ter: humanity itself would be lost in maternity, the woman
would become the mere personification of animal fury or fear.
For this reason all the ordinary representations of this subject
are, I think, false and cold: the artist has not heard the
shrieks, nor mingled Avith the fugitives ; he has sat down in his
study to convulse features methodically, and philosophize over
insanity. Not so Tintoret. Knowing, or feeling, that the
expression of the human face was, in such circumstances, not
to be rendered, and that the effort could only end in an
ugly falsehood, he denies himself all aid from the features, he
feels that if he is to place himself or us in the midst of that
maddened multitude, there can be no time allowed for watch-
ing expression. Still less does he depend on details of murder
or ghastliness of death ; there is no blood, no stabbing or cut-
ting, but there is an awful substitute for these in the chiaros-
curo. The scene is the outer vestibule of a palace, the slip-
pery marble floor is fearfully barred across by sanguine shadows,
so that our eyes seem to become bloodshot and strained with
strange horror and deadly vision ; a lake of life before them,
like the burning seen of the doomed Moabite on the water
that came by the way of Edom : a huge flight of stairs, with-
out parapet, descends on the left ; down this rush a crowd of
women mixed with the murderers ; the child in the arms of
one has been seized by the limbs, she hurls herself over the
«dge, and falls head downmost, dragging the child out of the
grasp ~by her weight ; — she will be dashed dead in a second : —
close to us is the great struggle ; a heap of the mothers, en-
tangled in one mortal writhe with each other and the swords ;
one of the murderers dashed down and crushed beneath them,
the sword of another caught by the blade and dragged at by a
woman's naked hand ; the youngest and fairest of the women,
her child just torn away from a death grasp, and clasped to
her breast with the grip of a steel vice, falls backwards, help-
less over the heap, right on the sword points ; all knit together
and hurled down in one hopeless, frenzied, furious abandon-
340 VEKETIAK IKDEX.
ment of body and soul in the effort to save. Far back, at the
bottom of the stairs, there is something in the shadow like a
heap of clothes. It is a woman, sitting quiet, — quite quiet, —
still as any stone ; she looks down steadfastly on her dead
child, laid along on the floor before her, and her hand is
pressed softly upon her brow."
I have nothing to add to the above description of this pic-
ture, except that I believe there may have been some change
in the color of the shadow that crosses the pavement. The
chequers of the pavements are, in the light, golden white and
pale grey ; in the shadow, red and dark grey, the white in the
sunshine becoming red in the shadow, I formerly supposed
that this was meant to give greater horror to the scene, and it
is very like Tintoret if it be so ; but there is a strangeness and
discordance in it which makes me suspect the colors may have
changed.
5. The Magdalen. This and the picture opposite to it, "St.
Mary of Egypt," have been painted to fill up narrow spaces be-
tween the windows which were not large enough to receive
compositions, and yet in which single figures would have looked
awkwardly thrust into the corner. Tintoret has made these
spaces as large as possible by filling them with landscapes,
which are rendered interesting by the introduction of single
figures of very small size. He has not, however, considered
his task, of making a small piece of wainscot look like a large
one, worth the stretch of his powers, and has painted these two
landscapes just as carelessly and as fast as an upholsterer's jour-
neyman finishing a room at a railroad hotel. The color is for
the most part opaque, and dashed or scrawled on in the man-
ner of a scene-painter ; and as during the whole morning the
sun shines upon the one picture, and during the afternoon
upon the other, hues, which were originally thin and imper-
fect, are now dried in many places into mere dirt upon the
canvas. With all these drawbacks the pictures are of very
high interest, for although, as I said, hastily and carelessly,
they are not languidly painted ; on the contrary, he has been
in his hottest and grandest temper ; and in this first one
("Magdalen") the laurel tree, with its leaves driven hither
and thither among flakes of fiery cloud, has been probably one
EOCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 341
of the greatest achievements that his hand performed in land-
scape : its roots are entangled in underwood ; of which every
leaf seems to be articulated, yet all is as wild as if it had grown
there instead of having been painted ; there has been a moun-
tain distance, too, and a sky of stormy light, of which I infi-
nitely regret the loss, for though its masses of light are still,
discernible, its variety of hue is all sunk into a withered brown.
There is a curious piece of execution in the striking of the
light upon a brook which runs under the roots of the laurel in
the foreground : these roots are traced in shadow against the
bright surface of the water ; another painter would have drawn
the light first, and drawn the dark roots over it. Tintoret has
laid in a brown ground which he has left for the roots, and
painted the water through their interstices with a few mighty
rolls of his brush laden with white.
6. St. Mary of Egypt. This picture differs but little in the
plan, from the one opposite, except that St. Mary has her back
towards us, and the Magdalen her face, and that the tree on
the other side of the brook is a palm instead of a laurel. The
brook (Jordan ?) is, however, here much more important ; and
the water painting is exceedingly fine. Of all painters that I
know, in old times, Tintoret is the fondest of running water ;
there was a sort of sympathy between it and his own impetu-
ous spirit. The rest of the landscape is not of much interest,
except so far as it is pleasant to see trunks of trees drawn by
single strokes of the brush.
7. The Circumcision of Christ. The custode has some story
about this picture having been painted in imitation of Paul
Veronese. I much doubt if Tintoret ever imitated any body ;
but this 'picture is the expression of his perception of what
Veronese delighted in, the nobility that there may be in mere)
golden tissue and colored drapery. It is, in fact, a picture of
the moral power of gold and color ; and the chief use of the
attendant priest is to support upon his shoulders the crimson
robe, with its square tablets of black and gold ; and yet noth-
ing is withdrawn from the interest or dignity of the scene.
Tintoret has taken immense pains with the head of the high-
priest. I know not any existing old man's head so exquisitely
tender, or so noble in its lines. He receives the Infant Christ
342
VEJfEMAK
in his arms kneeling, and looking down upon the Child with
infinite veneration and love ; and the flashing of golden rays
from its head is made the centre of light, and all interest.
The whole picture is like a golden charger to receive the
Qhild ; the priest's dress is held up behind him, that it maj
occupy larger space ; the tables and floor are covered with
chequer- work ; the shadows of the temple are filled with brazen
lamps ; and above all are hung masses of curtains, whose crim-
son folds are strewn over with golden flakes. Next to the
" Adoration of the Magi" this picture is the most laboriously
finished of the Scuola di San Rocco, and it is unquestionably
the highest existing type of the sublimity which may be thrown
into the treatment of accessaries of dress and decoration.
8. Assumption of the Virgin. On the tablet or panel of
stone which forms the side of the tomb out of which the Ma-
donna rises, is this inscription, in large letters, REST. AN-
TONIUS FLORIAN, 1834. Exactly in proportion to a
man's idiocy, is always the size of the letters in which he
writes his name on the picture that he spoils. The old mo-
saicists in St. Mark's have not, in a single instance, as far as I
know, signed their names ; but the spectator who wishes to
know who destroyed the effect of the nave, may see his name
inscribed, twice over, in letters half a foot high, BAETOLOMEO
BOZZA. I have never seen Tintoret's name signed, except in
the great " Crucifixion ;" but this Antony Florian, I have no
doubt, repainted the whole side of the tomb that he might put
his name on it. The picture is, of course, ruined wherever he
touched it ; that is to say, half over ; the circle of cherubs in
the sky is still pure ; and the design of the great painter is
palpable enough yet in the grand flight of the horizontal angel,
on whom the Madonna half leans as she ascends. It has been
a noble picture, and is a grievous loss ; but, happily, there are
so many pure ones, that we need not spend time in gleaning
treasures out of the ruins of this.
9. Visitation. A small picture, painted in his very best
manner ; exquisite in its simplicity, unrivalled in vigor, well
preserved, and, as a piece of painting, certainly one of the
most precious in Venice. Of course it does not show any of
his high inventive powers ; nor can a picture of four middle-
&OCCO, SCtfOT-A DT SAtf. 343
sized figures be made a proper subject of comparison with large
canvases containing forty or fifty ; but it is, for this very
reason, painted with such perfect ease, and yet with no slack-
ness either of affection or power, that there is no picture that
I covet so much. It is, besides, altogether free from the
Renaissance taint of dramatic effect. The gestures are as sim-
ple and natural as Giotto's, only expressed by grander lines,
such as none but Tintoret ever reached. The draperies are
dark, relieved against a light sky, the horizon being exces-
sively low, and the outlines of the drapery so severe, that the
intervals between the figures look like ravines between great
rocks, and have all the sublimity of an Alpine valley at twi-
light. This precious picture is hung about thirty feet above
the eye, but by looking at it in a strong light, it is discover-
able that the Saint Elizabeth is dressed in green and crimson,
the Virgin in the peculiar red which all great colorists de-
light in — a sort of glowing brick-color or brownish scarlet, op-
posed to rich golden brownish black ; and both have white
kerchiefs, or drapery, thrown over their shoulders. Zacharias
leans on his staff behind them in a black dress with white
sleeves. The stroke of brilliant white light, which outlines
the knee of Saint Elizabeth, is a curious instance of the habit
of the painter to relieve his dark forms by a sort of halo of
more vivid light, which, until lately, one would have been apt
to suppose a somewhat artificial and unjustifiable means of
effect. The daguerreotype has shown, what the naked eye
never could, that the instinct of the great painter was true,
and that there is actually such a sudden and sharp line of light
round the edges of dark objects relieved by luminous space.
Opposite this picture is a most precious Titian, the " An-
nunciation," full of grace and beauty. I think the Madonna
one of the sweetest figures he ever painted. But if the travel-
ler has entered at all into the spirit of Tintoret, he will imme-
diately feel the comparative feebleness and conventionality of
the Titian. Note especially the mean and petty folds of the
angel's drapery, and compare them with the draperies of the
opposite picture. The larger pictures at the sides of the stairs
by Zanchi and Negri, are utterly worthless.
344» VE^ETIAK INDEX.
Second Group. On the walls of the upper room.
10. Adoration of Shepherds. 17. Resiirrection of Lazarus.
11. Baptism.
12. Resurrection.
13. Agony in Garden.
14. Last Supper.
15. Altar Piece: St. Rocco.
16. Miracle of Loaves.
18. Ascension.
19. Pool of Bethesda.
20. Temptation.
21. St. Rocco.
22. St. Sebastian.
10. The Adoration of the Shepherds. This picture com-
mences the series of the upper room, which, as already no-
ticed, is painted with far less care than that of the lower. It
is one of the painter's inconceivable caprices that the only
canvases that are in good light should be covered in this hasty
manner, while those in the dungeon below, and on the ceiling
above, are all highly labored. It is, however, just possible that
the covering of these walls may have been an after-thought,
when he had got tired of his work. They are also, for the mos
part, illustrative of a principle of which I am more and moi
convinced every day, that historical and figure pieces ougl
not to be made vehicles for effects of light. The light whicl
is fit for a historical picture is that tempered semi-sunshine
of which, in general, the works of Titian are the best exam-
ples, and of which the picture we have just passed, " The Vis
itation," is a perfect example from the hand of one greater
than Titian; so also the three " Crucifixions" of San Rocco,
San Cassano, and St. John and Paul; the "Adoration of the
ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 345
Magi " here ; and, in general, the finest works of the master;
but Tintoret was not a man to work in any formal or syste-
matic manner; and, exactly like Turner, we find him recording
every effect which Nature herself displays. ' Still he seems to
regard the pictures which deviate from the great general prin-
ciple of colorists rather as "tours de force" than as sources
of pleasure; and I do not think there is any instance of his
having worked out one of these tricky pictures with thorough
affection, except only in the case of the "Marriage of Cana."
By tricky pictures, I mean those which display light entering
in different directions, and attract the eye to the effects rather
than to the figure which displays them. Of this treatment,
we have already had a marvellous instance in the candle-
light picture of the "Last Supper" in San Giorgio Maggiore.
This "Adoration of the Shepherds" has probably been nearly
as wonderful when first painted: the Madonna is seated on a
kind of hammock floor made of rope netting, covered with
straw; it divides the picture into two stories, of which the
uppermost contains the Virgin, with two women who are
adoring Christ, and shows light entering from above through
the loose timbers of the roof of the stable, as well as through
the bars of a square window; the lower division shows this
light falling behind the netting upon the stable floor, oc-
cupied by a cock and a cow, and against this light are re-
lieved the figures of the shepherds, for the most part in
demi-tint, but with flakes of more vigorous sunshine falling
here and there upon them from above. The optical illusion
has originally been as perfect as one of Hunt's best interiors;
but it is most curious that no part of the work seems to have
been taken any pleasure in by the painter; it is all by his hand,
but it looks as if he had been bent only on getting over the
ground. It is literally a piece of scene-painting, and is exactly
what we might fancy Tintoret to have done, had he been
forced to paint scenes at a small theatre at a shilling a day.
I cannot think that the whole canvas, though fourteen feet
high and ten wide, or thereabouts, could have taken him more
than a couple of days to finish: and it is very noticeable that
exactly in proportion to 'the brilliant effects of light is the
coarseness of the execution, for the figures of the Madonna
and of the women above, which are not in any strong effect,
346 VENETIAN INDEX.
are painted with some care, while the shepherds and the covr
are alike slovenly; and the latter, which is in full sunshine, is
recognizable for a cow more by its size and that of its horns,
than by any care given to its form. It is interesting to con-
trast this slovenly and mean sketch with the ass's head in the
''Flight into Egypt," on which the painter exerted his full
power; as an effect of light, however, the work is, of course,
most interesting. One point in the treatment is especially
noticeable: there is a peacock in the rack beyond the cow; and
under other circumstances, one cannot doubt that Tintoret
would have liked a peacock in full color, and would have
painted it green and blue with great satisfaction. It is sacri-
ficed to the light, however, and is painted in warm grey, with
a dim eye or two in the tail: this process is exactly analogous
to Turner's taking the colors out of the flags of his ships in
the "Gosport." Another striking point is the litter with
which the whole picture is filled in order more to confuse the
eye: there is straw sticking from the roof, straw all over the
hammock floor, and straw struggling hither and thither all
over the floor itself; and, to add to the confusion, the glory
around the head of the infant, instead of being united and
serene, is broken into little bits, and is like a glory of chopped
straw. But the most curious thing, after all, is the want of
delight in any of the principal figures, and the comparative
meanness and commonplaceness of even the folds of the drap-
ery. It seems as if Tintoret had determined to make the
shepherds as uninteresting as possible; but one does not see
why their very clothes should be ill painted, and their disposi-
tion unpicturesque. I believe, however, though it never struck
me until I had examined this picture, that this is one of the
painter's fixed principles : he does not, with German sentimen-
tality, make shepherds and peasants graceful or sublime, but
he purposely vulgarizes them, not by making their actions or
their faces boorish or disagreeable, but rather by painting them
ill, and composing their draperies tamely. As far as I recol-
lect at present, the principle is universal with him; exactly in
proportion to the dignity of character is the beauty of the
painting. He will not put out his strength upon any man
belonging to the lower classes; and, in order to know what the
ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 347
painter is, one must see him at work on a king, a senator, or a
saint. The curious connexion of this with the aristocratic
tendencies of the Venetian nation, when we remember that
Tintoret was the greatest man whom that nation produced, may
become very interesting, if followed out. I forgot to note that,
though the peacock is painted with great regardlessness of
color, there is a feature in it which no common painter would
have observed, — the peculiar flatness of the back, and undula-
tion of the shoulders: the bird's body is all there, though its
feathers are a good deal neglected; and the same thing is
noticeable in a cock who is pecking among the straw near the
spectator, though in other respects a shabby cock enough.
The fact is, I believe, he had made his shepherds so common-
place that he dare not paint his animals well, otherwise one
would have looked at nothing in the picture but the peacoc^
cock, and cow. I cannot tell what the shepherds are offering;
they look like milk bowls, but they are awkwardly held up,
with such twistings of body as would have certainly spilt the
milk. A woman in front has a basket of eggs; but this I
imagine to be merely to keep up the rustic character of the
scene, and not part of the shepherd's offerings.
11. Baptism. There is more of the true picture quality in
this work than in the former one, but still very little appear-
ance of enjoyment or care. The color is for the most part
grey and uninteresting, and the figures are thin and meagre
in form, and slightly painted; so much so, that of the nine-
teen figures in the distance, about a dozen are hardly worth
calling figures, and the rest are so sketched and flourished in
that one can hardly tell which is which. There is one point
about it very interesting to a landscape painter: the river is
seen far into the distance, with a piece of copse bordering it;
the sky beyond is dark, but the water nevertheless receives a
brilliant reflection from some unseen rent in the clouds, so
brilliant, that when I was first at Venice, not being accustomed
to Tintoret's slight execution, or to see pictures so much
injured, I took this piece of water for a piece of sky. The
effect as Tintoret has arranged it, is indeed somewhat un-
natural, but it is valuable as showing his recognition of a
principle unknown to half the historical painters of the present
348
VENETIAN INDEX.
day, — that the reflection seen in the water is totally different
from the object seen above it, and that it is very possible to
have a bright light in reflection where there appears nothing
but darkness to be reflected. The clouds in the sky itself are
round, heavy, and lightless, and in a great degree spoil what
would otherwise be a fine landscape distance. Behind the
rocks on the right, a single head is seen, with a collar on the
shoulders : it seems to be intended for a portrait of some per-
son connected with the picture.
12. Resurrection. Another of the "effect of light " pictures,
and not a very striking one, the best part of it being the two
distant figures of the Maries seen in the dawn of the morning.
The conception of the Resurrection itself is characteristic of
the worst points of Tintoret. His impetuosity is here in
the wrong place; Christ bursts out of the rock like a thunder-
bolt, and the angels themselves seem likely to be crushed
under the rent stones of the tomb. Had the figure of Christ
been sublime, this conception might have been accepted; but,
on the contrary, it is weak, mean, and painful; and the whole
picture is languidly or roughly painted, except only the fig-
tree at the top of the rock, which, by a curious caprice, is not
only drawn in the painter's best manner, but has golden ribs
to all its leaves, making it look like one of the beautiful
crossed or chequered patterns, of which he is so fond in his
dresses; the leaves themselves being a dark olive brown.
13. The Agony in the Garden. I cannot at present under-
stand the order of these subjects; but they may have been mis-
placed. This, of all the San Rocco pictures, is the most
hastily painted, but it is not, like those we have been passing,
clodly painted; it seems to have been executed altogether with
a hearth-broom, and in a few hours. It is another of the
"effects," and a very curious one; the Angel who bears the
cup to Christ is surrounded by a red halo; yet the light which
falls upon the shoulders of the sleeping disciples, and upon the
leaves of the olive-trees, is cool and silvery, while the troop
coming up to seize Christ are seen by torch-light. Judas, who
is the second figure, points to Christ, but turns his head away
as he does so, as unable to look at him. This is a noble touch;
the foliage is also exceedingly fine, though what kind, of olive-
BOCCO, SCUOLA DI SAK. 349
tree bears such leaves I know not, each of them being about
the size of a man's hand. If there be any which bear such
foliage, their olives must be the size of cocoa-nuts. This,
however, is true only of the underwood, which is, perhaps,
not meant for olive. There are some taller trees at the top of
the picture, whose leaves are of a more natural size. On
closely examining the figures of the troops on the left, I find
that the distant ones are concealed, all but the limbs, by a sort
of arch of dark color, which is now so injured, that I cannot
tell whether it was foliage or ground: I suppose it to have
been a mass of close foliage, through which the troop is break-
ing its way; Judas rather showing them the path, than actu-
ally pointing to Christ, as it is written, "Judas, who betrayed
him, knew the place." St. Peter, as the most zealous of the
three disciples, the only one who was to endeavor to defend
his Master, is represented as awakening and turning his head
toward the troop, while James and John are buried in pro-
found slumber, laid in magnificent languor among the leaves.
The picture is singularly impressive, when seen far enough off,
as an image of thick forest gloom amidst the rich and tender
foliage of the South; the leaves, however, tossing as in dis-
turbed night air, and the flickering of the torches, and of the
branches, contrasted with the steady flame which from the
Angel's presence is spread over the robes of the disciples.
The strangest feature in the whole is that the Christ also is
represented as sleeping. The angel seems to appear to him
in a dream.
14. The Last Supper. A most unsatisfactory picture; ' I
think about the worst I know of Tintoret's, where there is no
appearance of retouching. He always makes the disciples in
this scene too vulgar; they are here not only vulgar, but
diminutive, and Christ is at the end of the table, the smallest
figure of them all. The principal figures are two mendicants
sitting on steps in front; a kind of supporters, but I suppose
intended to be waiting for the fragments; a dog, in still more
earnest expectation, is watching the movements of the dis-
ciples, who are talking together, Judas having just gone out.
Christ is represented as giving what one at first supposes is the
sop to Judas, but as the disciple who received it has a glory,
350
INDEX.
and there are only eleven at table, it is evidently the Sacra-
mental bread. The room in which they are assembled is a
sort of large kitchen, and the host is seen employed at
dresser in the background. This picture has not only beei
originally poor, but is one of those exposed all day to the sun,
and is dried into mere dusty canvas: where there was once
blue, there is now nothing.
15. Saint Rocco in Glory. One of the worst order of Tin-
torets, with apparent smoothness and finish, yet languidly
painted, as if in illness or fatigue; very dark and heavy in
tone also; its figures, for the most part, of an awkward middle
size, about five feet high, and very uninteresting. St. Rocco
ascends to heaven, looking down upon a crowd of poor and
sick persons who are blessing and adoring him. One of these,
kneeling at the bottom, is very nearly a repetition, though a
careless and indolent one, of that of St. Stephen, in St.
Giorgio Maggiore, and of the central figure in the "Paradise"
of the Ducal Palace. It is a kind of lay figure, of which he
seems to have been fond ; its clasped hands are here shockingly
painted — I should think unfinished. It forms the only inv
portant light at the bottom, relieved on a dark ground; at the
top of the picture, the figure of St. Rocco is seen in shadow
against the light of the sky, and all the rest is in confused
shadow. The common placeness of this composition is curiously
connected with the languor of thought and touch throughout
the work.
16. Miracle of the Loaves. Hardly anything but a fine
piece of landscape is here left; it is more exposed to the sun
than any other picture in the room, and its draperies having
been, in great part, painted in blue, are now mere patches of
the color of starch; the scene is also very imperfectly con-
ceived. The twenty-one figures, including Christ and his
Disciples, very ill represent a crowd of seven thousand; stil
less is the marvel of the miracle expressed by perfect ease and
rest of the reclining figures in the foreground, who do not
so much as look surprised; considered merely as reclining
figures, and as pieces of effect in half light, they have once
been fine. The landscape, which represents the slope of a
woody hill, has a very grand and far-away look. Behind it is a
KOCCO, SCUOLA DI SAtf. 351
great space of streaky sky, almost prismatic in color, rosy and
golden clouds covering up its blue, and some fine vigorous
trees thrown against it; painted in about ten minutes each,
however, by curly touches of the brush, and looking rather
more like sea-weed than foliage.
17. Resurrection of Lazarus. Very strangely, and not im-
pressively conceived. Christ is half reclining, half sitting, at
the bottom of the picture, while Lazarus is disencumbered of
his grave-clothes at the top of it; the scene being the side of a
rocky hill, and the mouth of the tomb probably once visible
in the shadow on the left; but all that is now discernible is a
man having his limbs unbound, as if Christ were merely order-
ing a prisoner to be loosed. There appears neither awe nor
agitation, nor even much astonishment, in any of the figures
of the group; but the picture is more vigorous than any of the
three last mentioned, and the upper part of it is quite worthy
of the master, especially its noble fig-tree and laurel, which he
has painted, in one of his usual fits of caprice, as carefully as
that in the " Resurrection of Christ," opposite. Perhaps he
has some meaning in this; he may have been thinking of the
verse, " Behold the fig-tree, and all the trees; when they now
shoot forth," &c. In the present instance, the leaves are dark
only, and have no golden veins. The uppermost figures also
come dark against the sky, and would form a precipitous mass,
like a piece of the rock itself, but that they are broken in up-
on by one of the limbs of Lazarus, bandaged and in full light,
which, to my feeling, sadly injures the picture, both as a dis-
agreeable object, and a light in the wrong place. The grass
and weeds are, throughout, carefully painted, but the lower
figures are of little interest, and the face of the Christ a griev
ous failure.
18. The Ascension. I have always admired this picture,
though it is very slight and thin in execution, and cold in
color; but it is remarkable for its thorough effect of open air,
and for the sense of motion and clashing in the wings of the
Angels which sustain the Christ : they owe this effect a good
deal to the manner in which they are set, edge on; all seem
like sword-blades cutting the air. It is the most curious in
conception of all the pictures in the Scuola, for it represents,
352
VENETIAN INDEX.
beneath the Ascension, a kind of epitome of what took place
before the Ascension. In the distance are two Apostles walk-
ing, meant, I suppose, for the two going to Emmaus; nearer
are a group round a table, to remind us of Christ appearing to
them as they sat at meat; and in the foreground is a single
reclining figure of, I suppose, St. Peter, because we are told
that " he was seen of Cephas, then of the twelve:" but this in-
terpretation is doubtful; for why should not the vision by the
Lake of Tiberias be expressed also? And the strange thing
of all is the scene, for Christ ascended from the Mount of
Olives; but the Disciples are walking, and the table is set, in a
little marshy and grassy valley, like some of the bits near
Maison Neuve on the Jura, with a brook running through it;
so capitally expressed, that I believe it is this which makes me
so fond of the picture. The reflections are as scientific in the
diminution, in the image, of large masses of bank above, as
any of Turner's, and the marshy and reedy ground looks as if
one would sink into it; but what all this has to do with the
Ascension I cannot see. The figure of Christ is not undigni-
fied, but by no means either interesting or sublime.
19. Pool of Bethesda. I have no doubt the principal figures
have been repainted; but as the colors are faded, and the sub-
ject disgusting, I have not paid this picture sufficient attention
to say how far the injury extends; nor need any one spend
time upon it, unless after having first examined all the other
Tintorets in Venice. All the great Italian painters appear in-
sensible to the feeling of disgust at disease; but this study of
the population of an hospital is without any points of contrast,
and I wish Tintoret had not condescended to paint it. This
and the six preceding paintings have all been uninteresting, —
I believe chiefly owing to i^he observance in them of Sir Joshua's
rule for the heroic, "that drapery is to be mere drapery, and
not silk, nor satin, nor brocade." However wise such a rule
may be when applied to works of the purest religious art, it is
anything but wise as respects works of color. Tintoret is never
quite himself unless he has fur or velvet, or rich stuff of one
sort or the other, or jewels, or armor, or something that he can
put play of color into, among his figures, and not dead folds of
linsey-woolsey; and I believe that even the best pictures of
ROCCO, SCUOLA Dl SAN. 353
Raffaelle and Angelico are not a little helped by their hems
of robes, jewelled crowns, priests' copes, and so on; and the
pictures that have nothing of this kind in them, as for
instance the "Transfiguration," are to my mind not a little
dull.
20. Temptation. This picture singularly illustrates what
has just been observed; it owes great part of its effect to the lustre
of the jewels in the armlet of the evil angel, and to the beauti-
ful colors of his wings. These are slight accessaries apparently,
but they enhance the value of all the rest, and they have evi-
dently been enjoyed by the painter. The armlet is seen by
reflected light, its stones shining by inward lustre; this occult
fire being the only hint given of the real character of the
Tempter, who is otherways represented in the form of a beauti-
ful angel, though the face is sensual: we can hardly tell how
far it was intended to be therefore expressive of evil; for Tin-
toret's good angels have not always the purest features; but
there is a peculiar subtlety in this telling of the story by so
slight a circumstance as the glare of the jewels in the darkness.
It is curious to compare this imagination with that of the
mosaics in St. Mark's, in which Satan is a black monster, with
horns, and head, and tail, complete. The whole of the picture
is powerfully and carefully painted, though very broadly; it is
a strong effect of light, and therefore, as usual, subdued in
color. The painting of the stones in the foreground I have
always thought, and still think, the best piece of rock drawing
before Turner, and the most amazing instance of Tintoret's per-
ceptiveness afforded by any of his pictures.
21. St. Rocco. Three figures occupy the spandrils of the
window above this and the following picture, painted merely in
light and shade, two larger than life, one rather smaller. I
believe these to be by Tintoret; but as they are quite in the
dark, so that the execution cannot be seen, and very good de-
signs of the kind have been furnished by other masters, I can-
not answer for them. The figure of St. Eocco, as well as its
companion, St. Sebastian, is colored; they occupy the narrow
intervals between the windows, and are of course invisible under
ordinary circumstances. By a great deal of straining of the
eyes, and sheltering them with the hand from the light, some
354 VENETIAN INDEX.
little idea of the design may be obtained. The "St. Rocco"
is a fine figure, though rather coarse, but, at all events, worth as
much light as would enable us to see it.
22. St. Sebastian. This, the companion figure, is one of the
finest things in the whole room, and assuredly the most majes-
tic Saint Sebastian in existence; as far as mere humanity can
be majestic, for there is no effort at any expression of angelic
or saintly resignation; the effort is simply to realize the fact of
the martyrdom, and it seems to me that this is done to an ex-
tent not even attempted by any other painter. I never saw a
man die a violent death, and therefore cannot say whether this
figure be true or not, but it gives the grandest and most intense
impression of truth. The figure is dead, and well it may be,
for there is one arrow through the forehead and another
through the heart; but the eyes are open, though glazed, and
the body is rigid in the position in which it last stood, the left
arm raised and the left limb advanced, something in the atti-
tude of a soldier sustaining an attack under his shield, while
the dead eyes are still turned in the direction from which the
arrows came: but the most characteristic feature is the way these
arrows are fixed. In the common martyrdoms of St. Sebastian
they are stuck into him here and there like pins, as if they had
been shot from a great distance and had come faltering down,
entering the flesh but a little way, and rather bleeding the saint
to death than mortally wounding him; but Tintoret had no such
ideas about archery. He must have seen bows drawn in battle,
like that of Jehu when he smote Jehoram between the harness:
all the arrows in the saint's body lie straight in the same direc-
tion, broad-feathered and strong-shafted, and sent apparently
with the force of thunderbolts; every one of them has gone
through him like a lance, two through the limbs, one through
the arm, one through the heart, and the last has crashed
through the forehead, nailing the head to the tree behind as if
it had been dashed in by a sledge-hammer. The face, in spite
of its ghastliness, is beautiful, and has been serene; and the
light which enters first and glistens on the plumes of the arrows,
dies softly away upon the curling hair, and mixes with the glory
upon the forehead. There is not a more remarkable picture in
Venice, and yet I do not suppose that one in a thousand of the
ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN.
355
travellers who pass through the Scuola so much as perceives
there is a picture in the place which it occupies.
Third Group. On the roof of the upper room.
©
©
23. Moses striking the Rock.
24. Plague of Serpents.
25. Fall of Manna.
26. Jacob's Dream.
27. Ezekiel's Vision.
28. Fall of Man.
29. Elijah.
30. Jonah.
31. Joshua.
32. Sacrifice of Isaac.
33. Elijah at the Brook,
34. Paschal Feast.
35. Elisha feeding the People.
23. Moses striking the Roclc. We now come to the series of
pictures upon which the painter concentrated the strength he
had reserved for the upper room; and in some sort wisely, for,
though it is not pleasant to examine pictures on a ceiling, they
are at least distinctly visible without straining the eyes against
the light. They are carefully conceived and thoroughly well
painted in proportion to their distance from the eye. This
carefulness of thought is apparent at a glance: the "Moses
striking the Eock " embraces the whole of the seventeenth chap-
ter of Exodus, and even something more, for it is not from that
chapter, but from parallel passages that we gather the facts of
the impatience of Moses and the wrath of God at the waters of
Meribah; both which facts are shown by the leaping of the
stream out of the rock half-a-dozen ways at once, forming a
great arch over the head of Moses, and by the partial veiling
of the countenance of the Supreme Being. This latter is the
most painful part of the whole picture, at least as it is seen from
below; and I believe that in some repairs of the roof this head
356 VENETIAN INDEX.
must have been destroyed and repainted. It is one of Tinto-
ret's usual fine thoughts that the lower part of the figure is
veiled, not merely by clouds, but in a kind of watery sphere,
showing the Deity coming to the Israelites at that particular
moment as the Lord of the Rivers and of the Fountain of the
Waters. The whole figure, as well as that of Moses and the
greater number of those in the foreground, is at once dark and
warm, black and red being the prevailing colors, while the
distance is bright gold touched with blue, and seems to open
into the picture like a break of blue sky after rain. How ex-
quisite is this expression, by mere color, of the main force of the
fact represented! that is to say, joy and refreshment after sorrow
and scorching heat. But, when we examine of what this dis-
tance consists, we shall find still more cause for admiration.
The blue in it is not the blue of sky, it is obtained by blue
stripes upon white tents glowing in the sunshine; and in front
of these tents is seen that great battle with Amalek of which
the account is given in the remainder of the chapter, and for
which the Israelites received strength in the streams which ran
out of the rock in Horeb. Considered merely as a picture, the
opposition of cool light to warm shadow is one of the most re-
markable pieces of color in the Scuola, and the great mass of
foliage which waves over the rocks on the left appears to have
been elaborated with his highest power and his most sublime
invention. But this noble passage is much injured, and now
hardly visible.
24. Plague of Serpents. The figures in the distance are
remarkably important in this picture, Moses himself being
among them; in fact, the whole scene is filled chiefly with
middle-sized figures, in order to increase the impression of
space. It is interesting to observe the difference in the treat-
ment of this subject by the three great painters, Michael
Angelo, Rubens, and Tintoret. The first two, equal to the
latter in energy, had less love of liberty: they were fond of
binding their compositions into knots, Tintoret of scattering
his far and wide: they all alike preserve the unity of compo-
sition, but the unity in the first two is obtained by binding,
and that of the last by springing from one source ; and,
together with this feeling, comes his love of space, which
ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 357
makes him less regard the rounding and form of objects
themselves, than their relations of light and shade and dis-
tance. Therefore Eubens and Michael Angelo made the fiery
serpents huge boa constrictors, and knotted the sufferers
together with them. Tintoret does not like to be so bound;
so he makes the serpents little flying and fluttering monsters
like lampreys with wings; and the children of Israel, instead
of being thrown into convulsed and writhing groups, are scat-
tered, fainting in the fields, far away in the distance. As usual,
Tintoret's conception, while thoroughly characteristic of him-
self, is also truer to the words of Scripture. We are told that
"the Lord sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit
the people;" we are not told that they crushed the people to
death. And while thus the truest, it is also the most terrific
conception. M. Angelo's would be terrific if one could be-
lieve in it: but our instinct tells us that boa constrictors do
not come in armies; and we look upon the picture with as
little emotion as upon the handle of a vase, or any other form
worked out of serpents, where there is no probability of ser-
pents actually occurring. But there is a probability in Tin-
toret's conception. We feel that it is not impossible that
there should come up a swarm of these small winged reptiles:
and their horror is not diminished by their smallness: not
that they have any of the grotesque terribleness of German
invention; they might have been made infinitely uglier with
small pains, but it is their veritableness which makes them
awful. They have triangular heads with sharp beaks or
muzzle; and short, rather thick bodies, with bony processes
down the back like those of sturgeons; and small wings
spotted with orange and black; and round glaring eyes, not
very large, but very ghastly, with an intense delight in biting
expressed in them. (It is observable, that the Venetian
painter has got his main idea of them from the sea-horses
and small reptiles of the Lagoons.) These monsters are flut-
tering and writhing about everywhere, fixing on whatever
they come near with their sharp venomous heads; and they
are coiling about on the ground, anA all the shadows and
thickets are full of them, so that there is no escape anywhere:
and, in order to give the idea of greater extent to the plague,
358 YENETIAH INDEX.
Tintoret has not been content with one horizon; I have before
mentioned the excessive strangeness of this composition, in
having a cavern open in the right of the foreground, through
which is seen another sky and another horizon. At the top
of the picture, the Divine Being is seen borne by angels,
apparently passing over the congregation in wrath, involved
in masses of dark clouds; while, behind, an Angel of mercy
is descending toward Moses, surrounded by a globe of white
light. This globe is hardly seen from below; it is not a common
glory, but a transparent sphere, like a bubble, which not only
envelopes the angel, but crosses the figure of Moses, throwing
the upper part of it into a subdued pale color, as if it were
crossed by a sunbeam. Tintoret is the only painter who- plays
these tricks with transparent light, the only man who seems
to have perceived the effects of sunbeams, mists, and clouds,
in the far away atmosphere; and to have used what he saw on
towers, clouds, or mountains, to enhance the sublimity of his
figures. The whole upper part of this picture is magnificent,
less with respect to individual figures, than for the drift of its
clouds, and originalty and complication of its light and shade;
it is something like Eaffaelle's " Vision of Ezekiel," but far
finer. It is difficult to understand how any painter, who could
represent floating clouds so nobly as he has done here, could
ever paint the odd, round, pillowy masses which so often occur
in his more carelessly designed sacred subjects. The lower
figures are not so interesting, and the whole is painted with a
view to effect from below, and gains little by close examina-
tion.
25. Fall of Manna. In none of these three large composi-
tions has the painter made the slightest effort at expression in
the human countenance; everything is done by gesture, and
the faces of the people who are drinking from the rock, dying
from the serpent-bites, and eating the manna, are all alike as
calm as if nothing was happening; in addition to this, as they
are painted for distant effect, the heads are unsatisfactory
and coarse when seen near, and perhaps in this last picture
the more so, and yet the story is exquisitely told. We have
seen in the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore another example
of his treatment of it, where, however, the gathering of
UOCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 359
manna is a subordinate employment, but here it is prin-?
cipal. Now, observe, we are told of the manna, that it was
found in the morning; that then there lay round about the
camp a small round thing like the hoar-frost, and that "when
the sun waxed hot it melted." Tintoret has endeavored,
therefore, first of all, to give the idea of coolness; the congre-
gation are reposing in a soft green meadow, surrounded by
blue hills, and there are rich trees above them, to the branches
of one of which is attached a great grey drapery to catch the
manna as it comes down. In any other picture such a mass
of drapery would assuredly have had some vivid $color, but here
it is grey; the fields are cool frosty green, the mountains cold
blue, and, to complete the expression and meaning of all this,
there is a most important point to be noted in the form of the
Deity, seen above, through an opening in the clouds. There
are at least ten or twelve other pictures in which the form of
the Supreme Being occurs, to be found in the Scuola di San
Eocco alone; and in every one of these instances it is richly
colored, the garments being generally red and blue, but in
this picture of the manna the figure is snow white. Thus the
painter endeavors to show the Deity as the giver of bread,
just as in the " Striking of the Rock" we saw that he repre-
sented Him as the Lord of the rivers, the fountains, and the
waters. There is one other very sweet incident at the bottom
of the picture; four or five sheep, instead of pasturing, turn
their heads aside to catch the manna as it comes down,
or seem to be licking it off each other's fleeces. The tree
above, to which the drapery is tied, is the most delicate and
delightful piece of leafage in all the Scuola; it has a large
sharp leaf, something like that of a willow, but five times the •
size.
26. Jacob's Dream. A picture which has good effect from
below, but gains little when seen near. It is an embarrassing
one for any painter, because angels always look awkward going
up and down stairs; one does not see the use of their wings.
Tintoret has thrown them into buojant and various attitudes,
but has evidently not treated the subject with delight; and it
is seen to all the more disadvantage because just above the
painting of the "Ascension," in which the full fresh power
360
VENETIAN INDEX.
of the painter is developed. One would think this latter pic-
ture had been done just after a walk among hills, for it is
full of the most delicate effects of transparent cloud, more or
less veiling the faces and forms of the angels, and covering
with white light the silvery sprays of the palms, while the
clouds in the "Jacob's Dream" are the ordinary rotundities of
the studio.
27. Ezekiel's Vision. I suspect this has been repainted, it
is so heavy and dead in color; a fault, however, observable in
many of the small pictures on the ceiling, and perhaps the
natural result of the fatigue of such a mind as Tintoret's. A
painter who threw such intense energy into some of his works
can hardly but have been languid in others in a degree never
experienced by the more tranquil minds of less powerful work-
men; and when this languor overtook him whilst he was at
work on pictures where a certain space had to be covered by
mere force of arm, this heaviness of color could hardly but
have been the consequence: it shows itself chiefly in reds and
other hot hues, many of the pictures in the Ducal Palace also
displaying it in a painful degree. This " Ezekiel's Vision" is,
however, in some measure worthy of the master, in the wild
and horrible energy with which the skeletons are leaping up
about the prophet; but it might have been less horrible and
more sublime, no attempt being nnade to represent the space
of the Valley of Dry Bones, and the whole canvas being occu-
pied only by eight figures, of which five are half skeletons. It
it is strange that, in such a subject, the prevailing hues should
be red and brown.
28. Fall of Man. The two canvases last named are the
most considerable in size upon the roof, after the centre
pieces. "We now come to the smaller subjects which sur-
round the " Striking the Rock;" of these this " Fall of Man"
is the best, and I should think it very fine anywhere but in
the Scuola di San Rocco; there is a grand light on the body of
Eve, and the vegetation is remarkably rich, but the faces are
coarse, and the composition uninteresting. I could not get
near enough to see what the grey object is upon which Eve
appears to be sitting, nor could I see any serpent. It is
made prominent in the picture of the Academy of this same
ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN". 361
subject, so that I suppose it is hidden in the darkness, together
with much detail which it would be necessary to discover in
order to judge the work justly.
29. Elijah (?). A prophet holding down his face, which is
covered with his hand. God is talking with him, apparently
in rebuke. The clothes on his breast are rent, and the action
of the figures might suggest the idea of the scene between the
Deity and Elijah at Horeb: but there is no suggestion of the
past magnificent scenery, — of the wind, the earthquake, or
the fire; so that the conjecture is good for very little. The
painting is of small interest; the faces are vulgar, and the
draperies have too much vapid historical dignity to be de-
lightful.
30. Jonah. The whale here occupies fully one-half of the
canvas; being correspondent in value with a landscape back-
ground. His mouth is as large as a cavern, and yet, unless
the mass of red color in the foreground be a piece of drapery,
his tongue is too large for it. He seems to have lifted Jonah
out upon it, and not yet drawn it back, so that it forms a kind
of crimson cushion for him to kneel upon in his submission to
the Deity. The head to which this vast tongue belongs is
sketched in somewhat loosely, and there is little remarkable
about it except its size, nor much in the figures, though the
submissiveness of Jonah is well given. The great thought of
Michael Angelo renders one little charitable to any less imag-
inative treatment of this subject.
31. Joshua (?). This is a most interesting picture, and it
is a shame that its subject is not made out, for it is not a com-
mon one. The figure has a sword in its hand, and looks up to
a sky full of fire, out of which the form of the Deity is stoop-
ing, represented as white and colorless. On the other side of
the picture there is seen among the clouds a pillar apparently
falling, and there is a crowd at the feet of the principal figure,
carrying spears. Unless this be Joshua at the fall of Jericho,
I cannot tell what it means ; it is painted with great vigor,
and worthy of a better place.
32. Sacrifice of Isaac. In conception, it is one of the least
worthy of the master in the whole room, the three figures be-
ing thrown into violent attitudes, as inexpressive as they are
362 VENETIAN INDEX.
strained and artificial. It appears to have been vigorously
painted, but vulgarly ; that is to say, the light is concen-
trated upon the white beard and upturned countenance of
Abraham, as it would have been in one of the dramatic effects
of the French school, the result being that the head is very
bright and very conspicuous, and perhaps, in some of the late
operations upon the roof, recently washed and touched. In
consequence, every one who conies into the room, is first in-
vited to observe the " bella testa di Abramo." The only thing
characteristic of Tintoret is the way in which the pieces of
ragged wood are tossed hither and thither in the pile upon
which Isaac is bound, although this scattering of the wood is
inconsistent with the Scriptural account of Abraham's delib-
erate procedure, for we are told of him that "he set the wood
in order." But Tintoret had probably not noticed this, and
thought the tossing of the timber into the disordered heap
more like the act of the father in his agony.
33. Elijah at the Brook Cherith (9). I cannot tell if I have
rightly interpreted the meaning of this picture, which merely
represents a noble figure couched upon the ground, and an
angel appearing to him ; but I think that between the dark
tree on the left, and the recumbent figure, there is some ap-
pearance of a running stream, at all events there is of a
mountainous and stony place. The longer I study this mas-
ter, the more I feel the strange likeness between him and
Turner, in our never knowing what subject it is that will stir
him to exertion. We have lately had him treating Jacob's
Dream, Ezekiel's Vision, Abraham's Sacrifice, and Jonah's
Prayer, (all of them subjects on which the greatest painters
have delighted to expend their strength,) with coldness, care-
lessness, and evident absence of delight ; and here, on a sud-
den, in a subject so indistinct that one cannot be sure of its
meaning, and embracing only two figures, a man and an angel,
forth he starts in his full strength. I believe he must some-
where or another, the day before, have seen a kingfisher ; for
this picture seems entirely painted for the sake of the glorious
downy wings of the angel, — white clouded with blue, as the
bird's head and wings are with green, — the softest and most
elaborate in plumage that I have seen in any of his works :
KOCCO, SCUOLA DI SAX. 3G3
but observe also the general sublimity obtained by the mount-
ainous lines of the drapery of the recumbent figure, dependent
for its dignity upon these forms alone, as the face is more than
half hidden, and what is seen of it expressionless.
34. The Paschal Feast. I name this picture by the title given
in the guide-books ; it represents merely five persons watching
the increase of a small fire lighted on a table or altar in the
midst of them. It is only because they have all staves in their
hands that one may conjecture this fire to be that kindled to
consume the Paschal offering. The effect is of course a fire
light ; and, like all mere fire lights that I have ever seen,
totally devoid of interest.
35. Elisha feeding the People. I again guess at the subject :
the picture only represents a figure casting down a number of
loaves before a multitude ; but, as Elisha has not elsewhere
occurred, I suppose that these must be the barley loaves brought
from Baalshalisha. In conception and manner of painting,
this picture and the last, together with the others above-
mentioned, in comparison with the "Elijah at Cherith," may
be generally described as " dregs of Tintoret :" they are tired,
dead, dragged out upon the canvas apparently in the heavy-
hearted state which a man falls into when he is both jaded
with toil and sick of the work he is employed upon. They
are not hastily painted ; on the contrary, finished with con-
siderably more care than several of the works upon the walls ;
but those, as, for instance, the "Agony in the Garden," are
hurried sketches with the man's whole heart in them, while
these pictures are exhausted fulfilments of an appointed task.
Whether they were really amongst the last painted, or whether
the painter had fallen ill at some intermediate time, I cannot
say ; but we shall find him again in his utmost strength in the
room which we last enter.
364 VENETIAN INDEX.
Fourtn Group. Inner room on the upper floor.
On the Roof.
36 to 39. Children's Heads. 41 to 44. Children.
40. St. Rocco in Heaven. 45 to 56. Allegorical Figures.
On the Walls.
57. Figure in Niche. 60. Ecce Homo.
58. Figure in Niche. 61. Christ bearing his Cross.
59. Christ before Pilate. 62. CRUCIFIXION.
36 to 39. Four Children's Heads, which it is much to be re-
gretted should be thus lost in filling small vacuities of the ceiling.
40. St. Rocco in Heaven. The central picture of the roof,
in the inner room. From the well-known anecdote respecting
the production of this picture, whether in all its details true or
not, we may at least gather that having been painted in competi-
tion with Paul Veronese and other powerful painters of the
day, it was probably Tintoret's endeavor to make it as popular
and showy as possible. It is quite different from his common
works j bright in all its tints and tones ; the faces carefully
ROCCO, SCUOLA Dl SAN. 365
drawn, and of an agreeable type ; the outlines firm, and the
shadows few ; the whole resembling Correggio more than any
Venetian painter. It is, however, an example of the danger,
even to the greatest artist, of leaving his own style ; for it lacks
all the great virtues of Tintoret, without obtaining the luscious-
ness of Correggio. One thing, at all events, is remarkable in it,
— that, though painted while the competitors were making their
sketches, it shows no sign of haste or inattention.
41 to 44. Figures of Children, merely decorative.
45 to 56. Allegorical Figures on the Roof. If these were not
in the same room with the " Crucifixion," they would attract
more public attention than any works in the Scuola, as there are
here no black shadows, nor extravagances of invention, but very
beautiful figures richly and delicately colored, a good deal re-
sembling some of the best works of Andrea del Sarto. There is
nothing in them, however, requiring detailed examination. The
two figures between the windows are very slovenly, if they are
his at all ; and there are bits of marbling and fruit filling the
cornices, which may or may not be his : if they are, they are
tired work, and of small importance.
59. Christ before Pilate. A most interesting picture, but,
which is unusual, best seen on a dark day, when the white figure
of Christ alone draws the eye, looking almost like a spirit ; the
painting of the rest of the picture being both somewhat thin and
imperfect. There is a certain meagreness about all the minor
figures, less grandeur and largeness in the limbs and draperies,
and less solidity, it seems, even in the color, although its ar-
rangements are richer than in many of the compositions above
described. I hardly know whether it is owing to this thinness
of color, or on purpose, that the horizontal clouds shine through
the crimson flag in the distance ; though I should think the lat-
ter, for the effect is most beautiful. The passionate action of
the Scribe in lifting his hand to dip the pen into the ink-horn
is, however, affected and overstrained, and the Pilate is very
mean ; perhaps intentionally, that no reverence might be with-
drawn from the person of Christ. In work of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries, the figures of Pilate and Herod are
always intentionally made contemptible.
Ecce Homo. As usual, Tintoret's own peculiar view of the
VENETIAN INDEX.
subject. Christ is laid fainting on the ground, with a soldier
standing on one side of him ; while Pilate, on the other, with-
draws the robe from the scourged and wounded body, and points
it out to the Jews. Both this and the picture last mentioned
resemble Titian more than Tintoret in the style of their treat-
ment.
61. Christ bearing his Cross. Tintoret is here recognizable
again in undiminished strength. He has represented the troops
and attendants climbing Calvary by a winding path, of which
two turns are seen, the figures on the uppermost ledge, andi
Christ in the centre of them, being relieved against the sky ;i
but, instead of the usual simple expedient of the bright horizon'
to relieve the dark masses, there is here introduced, on the left,:
the head of a white horse, which blends itself with the sky in
one broad mass of light. The power of the picture is chiefly in
effect, the figure of Christ being too far off to be very interest-
ing, and only the malefactors being seen on the nearer path;
but for this very reason it seems to me more impressive, as if
one had been truly present at the scene, though not exactly in
the right place for seeing it.
62. The Crucifixion. I must leave this picture to work its
will on the spectator ; for it is beyond all analysis, and above all
praise.
S
SAGREDO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal, II. 256. Much de-
faced, but full of interest. Its sea story is restored ; its first
floor has a most interesting arcade of the early thirteenth
century third order windows ; its upper windows are the finest
fourth and fifth orders of early fourteenth century ; the group
of fourth orders in the centre being brought into some resem»
blance to the late Gothic traceries by the subsequent intro-
duction of the quatrefoils above them.
SALUTE, CHURCH OF STA. MARIA BELLA, on the Grand Canal,
II. 378. One of the earliest buildings of the Grotesque Re-
naissance, rendered impressive by its position, size, and general
proportions. These latter are exceedingly good; the grace
of the whole building being chiefly dependent on the ine-
quality of size in its cupolas, and pretty grouping of the two
campaniles behind them. It is to be generally observed that
SAGREPO — SALUTE. 367
the proportions of buildings have nothing whatever to do with
the style or general merits of their architecture. An architect
trained in the worst schools, and utterly devoid of all meaning
or purpose in his work, may yet have such a natural gift of
massing and grouping as will render all his structures effec-
tive when seen from a distance : such a gift is very general
with the late Italian builders, so that many of the most con-
temptible edifices in the country have good stage effect so long
as we do not approach them. The Church of the Salute is
farther assisted by the beautiful flight of steps in front of it
down to the canal ; and its facade is rich and beautiful of its
kind, and was chosen by Turner for the principal object in his
well-known view of the Grand Canal. The principal faults of
the building are the meagre windows in the sides of the cupola,
and the ridiculous disguise of the buttresses under the form of
colossal scrolls ; the buttresses themselves being originally a
hypocrisy, for the cupola is stated by Lazari to be of timber, and
therefore needs none. The sacristy contains several precious
pictures : the three on its roof by Titian, much vaunted, are
indeed as feeble as they are monstrous ; but the small Titian,
" St. Mark, with Sts. Cosmo and Damian," was, when I firsfe
saw it, to my judgment, by far the first work of Titian's in
Venice. It has since been restored by the Academy, and it
seemed to me entirely destroyed, but I had not time to examine
it carefully.
At the end of the larger sacristy is the lunette which once
decorated the tomb of the Doge Francesco Dandolo (see above,
page 74) ; and, at the side of it, one of the most highly finished
Tintorets in Venice, namely :
The Marriage in Cana. An immense picture, some twenty-
five feet long by fifteen high, and said by Lazari to be one of
the few which Tintoret signed with his name. I am not sur-
prised at his having done so in this case. Evidently the work
has been a favorite with him, and he has taken as much pains
as it was ever necessary for his colossal strength to take with
anything. The subject is not one which admits of much sin-
gularity or energy in compositio'n. It was always a favorite
one with Veronese, because it gave dramatic interest to figures
in gay costumes and of cheerful countenances j but one is sur-
868 VENETIAN INDEX.
prised to find Tintoret, whose tone of mind was always grave,
and who did not like to make a picture out of brocades and
diadems, throwing his whole strength into the conception of a
marriage feast ; but so it is, and there are assuredly no female
heads in any of his pictures in Venice elaborated so far as those
which here form the central light. Neither is it often that the
works of this mighty master conform themselves to any of the
rules acted upon by ordinary painters ; but in this instance the
popular laws have been observed, and an academy student
would be delighted to see with what severity the principal light
is arranged in a central mass, which is divided and made more
brilliant by a vigorous piece of shadow thrust into the midst of
it, and which dies away in lesser fragments and sparkling to-
wards the extremities of the picture. This mass of light is as
interesting by its composition as by its intensity. The cice-
rone who escorts the stranger round the sacristy in the course
of five minutes, and allows him some forty seconds for the
contemplation of a picture which the study of six months
would not entirely fathom, -directs his attention very carefully
to the "bell' effetto di prospettivo," the whole merit of the
* picture being, in the eyes of the intelligent public, that there
is a long table in it, one end of which looks farther off than
the other ; but there is more in the " bell' effetto di prospet.
tivo" than the observance of the common laws of optics. The
table is set in a spacious chamber, of which the windows at the
end let in the light from the horizon, and those in the side
wall the intense blue of an Eastern sky. The spectator looks
all along the table, at the farther end of which are seated
Christ and the Madonna, the marriage guests on each side of
it, — on one side men, on the other women ; the men are set
with their backs to the light, which passing over their heads
and glancing slightly on the tablecloth, falls in full length
along the line of young Venetian women, who thus fill the
whole centre* of the picture with one broad sunbeam, made up
of fair faces and golden hair. Close to the spectator a woman
has risen in amazement, and stretches across the table to show
the wine in her cup to those opposite ; her dark red dress in-
tercepts and enhances the mass of gathered light. It is rather
curious, considering the subject of the picture, that one can»
SALUTE. 369
not distinguish either the bride or the bridegroom ; but the
fourth figure from the Madonna in the line of women, who
wears a white head-dress of lace and rich chains of pearls in
her hair, may well be accepted for the former, and I think that
between her and the woman on the Madonna's left hand the
unity of the line of women is intercepted by a male figure ; be
this as it may, this fourth female face is the most beautiful, as
far as I recollect, that occurs in the works of the painter, with
the exception only of the Madonna in the " Flight into Egypt,"
It is an ideal which occurs indeed elsewhere in many of his
works, a face at once dark and delicate, the Italian cast of
feature moulded with the softness and childishness of English
beauty some half a century ago ; but I have never seen the
ideal so completely worked out by the master. The face may
best be described as one of the purest and softest of Stothard's
conceptions, executed with all the strength of Tintoret. The
other women are all made inferior to this one, but there are
beautiful profiles and bendings of breasts and ne$ks along the
whole line. The men are all subordinate, though there are in-
teresting portraits among them ; perhaps the only fault of the
picture being that the faces are a little too conspicuous, seen
like balls of light among the crowd of minor figures which fill
the background of the picture. The tone of the whole is sober
and majestic in the highest degree ; the dresses are all broad
masses of color, and the only parts of the picture which lay
claim to the expression of wealth or splendor are the head-
dresses of the women. In this respect the conception of the
scene differs widely from that of Veronese, and approaches
more nearly to the probable truth. Still the marriage is not
an unimportant one ; an immense crowd, filling the back-
ground, forming superbly rich mosaic of color against the dis-
tant sky. Taken as a whole, the picture is perhaps the most
perfect example which human art has produced of the utmost
possible force and sharpness of shadow united with richness of
local color. In all the other works of Tintoret, and much
more of other colorists, either the light and shade or the local
color is predominant ; in the one case the picture has a ten-
dency to look as if painted by candle-light, in the other it be-
comes daringly conventional, and approaches the conditions of
370 VEXETIAK IXDEX.
glass-painting. This picture unites color as rich as Titian's
with light and shade as forcible as Rembrandt's, and far more
decisive.
There are one or two other interesting pictures of the early
Venetian schools in this sacristy, and several important tombs
in the adjoining cloister ; among which that of Francesco
Dandolo, transported here from the Church of the Frari, de-
serves especial attention. See above, p. 74.
SALVATOKE, CHURCH OF ST. Base Renaissance, occupying the
place of the ancient church, under the porch of which the
Pope Alexander III. is said to have passed the night. M.
Lazari states it to have been richly decorated with mosaics ;
now all is gone.
In the interior of the church are some of the best examples
of Renaissance sculptural monuments in Venice. (See above,
Chap. 11.^ § LXXX.) It is said to possess an important pala of
silver, of the thirteenth century, one of the objects in Venice
which I much regret having forgotten to examine ; besides
two Titians, a Bonifazio, and a John Bellini. The latter
(" The Supper at Emmaus ") must, I think, have been entirely
repainted : it is not only unworthy of the master, but unlike
him ; as far, at least, as I could see from below, for it is hung
high.
SANUDO PALAZZO. At the Miracoli. A noble Gothic palace of
the fourteenth century, with Byzantine fragments and cor-
nices built into its walls, especially round the interior court, in
which the staircase is very noble. Its door, opening on the
quay, is the only one in Venice entirely uninjured ; retaining
its wooden valve richly sculptured, its wicket for examination
of the stranger demanding admittance, and its quaint knocker
in the form of a fish.
SCALZI, CHURCH OF THE. It possesses a fine John Bellini, and
is renowned through Venice for its precious marbles. I omitted
to notice above, in speaking of the buildings of the Grotesque
Renaissance, that many of them are remarkable for a kind of
dishonesty, even in the use of true marbles, resulting not from
motives of economy, but from mere love of juggling and false-
hood for their own sake. I hardly know which condition of
mind is meanest, that which has pride in plaster made to look
SALVATORE— SILVESTHO, 871
like marble, or that which takes delight in marble made to
look like silk. Several of the later churches in Venice, more
especially those of the Jesuiti, of San Clemente, and this of
the Scalzi, rest their chief claims to admiration on their hav-
ing curtains and cushions cut out of-rock. The most ridicu-
lous example is in San Clemente, and the most curious and
costly are in the Scalzi ; which latter church is a perfect type
of the vulgar abuse of marble in every possible way, by men
who had no eye for color, and no understanding of any merit
in a work of art but that which arises from costliness of ma-
terial, and such powers of imitation as are devoted in England
to the manufacture of peaches and eggs out of Derbyshire
spar.
SEBASTIAN, CHURCH OF ST. The tomb, and of old the monu-
ment, of Paul Veronese. It is full of his noblest pictures, or
of what once were such ; but they seemed to me for the most
part destroyed by repainting. I had not time to examine them
justly, but I would especially direct the traveller's attention to
the small Madonna over the second altar on the right of the
nave, still a perfect and priceless treasure.
SERVI, CHURCH OF THE. Only two of its gates and some ruined
walls are left, in one of the foulest districts of the city. It was
one of the most interesting monuments of the early fourteenth
century Gothic ; and there is much beauty in the fragments
yet remaining. How long they may stand I know not, the
whole building having been offered me for sale, ground and
all, or stone by stone, as I chose, by its present proprietor,
when I was last in Venice. More real good might at present
be effected by any wealthy person who would devote his re-
sources to the preservation of such monuments wherever
they exist, by freehold purchase of the entire ruin, and after-
wards by taking proper charge of it, and forming a garden
round it, than by any other mode of protecting or encouraging
art. There is no school, no lecturer, like a ruin of the early
SEVERO, FONDAMENTA SAN, palace at, II. 264.
SILVESTRO, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance in itself, but it
contains two very interesting pictures: the first, a "St.
Thomas of Canterbury with the Baptist and St. Francis," by
372 VEKKTIAK INDEX.
Girolamo Santa Croce, a superb example of the Venetian reli-
gious school; the second by -Tiutoret, namely:
The Baptism of Christ. (Over the first altar on the right
of the nave.) An upright picture, some ten feet wide by
fifteen high; the top of it is arched, representing the Father
supported by angels. It requires little knowledge of Tintoret
to see that these figures are not by his hand. By returning
to the opposite side of the nave, the join in the canvas may be
plainly seen, the upper part of the picture having been entirely
added on: whether it had this upper part before it was re-
painted, or whether originally square, cannot now be told, but
I believe it had an upper part which has been destroyed. I
am not sure if even the dove and the two angels which are at
the top of the older part of the picture are quite genuine.
The rest of it is magnificent, though both the figures of the
Saviour and the Baptist show some concession on the part of
the painter to the imperative requirement of his age, that
nothing should be done except in an attitude; neither are there
any of his usual fantastic imaginations. There is simply the
Christ in the water and the St. John on the shore, without
attendants, disciples, or witnesses of any kind; but the power
of the light and shade, and the splendor of the landscape,
which on the whole is well preserved, render it a most interest-
^ng example. The Jordan is represented as a mountain brook,
receiving a tributary stream in a cascade from the rocks, in
which St. John stands: there is a rounded stone in the centre
of the current; and the parting of the water at this, as well as
its rippling among the roots of some dark trees on the left, are
among the most accurate remembrances of nature to be found
in any of the works of the great masters. I hardly know
whether most to wonder at the power of the man who thus
broke through the neglect of nature which was universal at
his time; or at the evidences, visible throughout the whole of
the conception, that he was still content to paint from slight
memories of what he had seen in hill countries, instead of fol-
lowing out to its full depth the fountain which he had opened.
There is not a stream among the hills of Priuli which in any
quarter of a mile of its course would not have suggested to him
finer forms of cascade than those which he has idly painted at
Venice.
SILVESTRO — TOMA. 373
SIMEONE, PROFETA, CHURCH OF ST. Very important, though
small, possessing the precious statue of St. Simeon, above
noticed, II. 309. The rare early Gothic capitals of the nave
are only interesting to the architect; but in the little passage
by the side of the church, leading out of the Campo, there is
a curious Gothic monument built into the wall, very beautiful
in the placing of the angels in the spandrils, and rich in the
vine-leaf moulding above.
SIMEONE, PICCOLO, CHURCH OF ST. One of the ugliest churches
in Venice or elsewhere. Its black dome, like an unusual
species of gasometer, is the admiration of modern Italian
architects.
SOSPIRI, PONTE DE'. The well known " Bridge of Sighs," a
work of no merit, and of a late period (see Vol. II. p. 304),
owing the interest it possesses chiefly to its pretty name, and
to the ignorant sentimentalism of Byron.
SPIRITO SANTO, CHURCH OF THE. Of no importance.
STEFANO, CHURCH OF ST. An interesting building of central
Gothic, the best ecclesiastical example of it in Venice. The
west entrance is much later than any of the rest, and is of the
richest Eenaissance Gothic, a little anterior to the Porta della
Carta, and first-rate of its kind. The manner of the intro-
duction of the figure of the angel at the top of the arch is full
of beauty. Note the extravagant crockets and cusp finials as
signs of decline.
STEFANO, CHURCH OF ST., at Murano (pugnacity of its abbot),
II. 33. The church no longer exists.
STROPE, CAMPIELLO BELLA, house in, II. 266.
T
TANA, windows at the, II. 260.
TIEPOLO, PALAZZO, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.
TOLENTINI, CHURCH OF THE. One of the basest and coldest
works of the late Eenaissance. It is said to contain two Boni-
fazios.
TOMA, CHURCH OF ST. Of no importance.
TOMA, PONTE SAN. There is an interesting ancient doorway
opening on the canal close to this bridge, probably of the
twelfth century, and a good early Gothic door, opening upon
the bridge itself.
374 VENETIAN INDEX.
TORCELLO, general aspect of, II. 12; Santa Fosca at, I. 117, II.
13; duomo, II. 14; mosaics of, II. 196; measures of, II. 378;
date of, II. 380.
TREVISAN, PALAZZO, I. 369, III. 212.
TRON, PALAZZO. Of no importance.
TROVASO, CHURCH OF ST. Itself of no importance, but con-
taining two pictures by Tintoret, namely:
1. TJie Temptation of St. Anthony. (Altar piece in the
chapel on the left of the choir.) A small and very carefully
finished picture, but marvellously temperate and quiet in
treatment, especially considering the subject, which one would
have imagined likely to inspire the painter with one of his
most fantastic visions. As if on purpose to disappoint us, both
the effect, and the conception of the figures, are perfectly
quiet, and appear the result much more of careful study than
of vigorous imagination. The effect is one of plain daylight;
there are a few clouds drifting in the distance, but with no
wildness in them, nor is there any energy or heat in the flames
which mantle about the waist of one of the figures. But for
the noble workmanship, we might almost fancy it the produc-
tion of a modern academy; yet as we begin to read the picture,
the painter's mind becomes felt. St. Anthony is surrounded
by four figures, one of which only has the form of a demon,
and he is in the background, engaged in.no more terrific act
of violence toward St. Anthony, than endeavoring to pull off
his mantle: he has, however, a scourge over his shoulder, but
this is probably intended for St. Anthony's weapon of self-
discipline, which the fiend, with a very Protestant turn of
mind, is carrying off. A broken staff, with a bell hanging to
it, at the saint's feet, also expresses his interrupted devotion.
The three other figures beside him are bent on more cunning
mischief: the woman on the left is one of Tintoret's best por-
traits of a young and bright-eyed Venetian beauty. It is
curious that he has given so attractive a countenance to a type
apparently of the temptation to violate the power of poverty,
for this woman places one hand in a vase full of coins, and
shakes golden chains with the other. On the opposite side of
the saint, another woman, admirably painted, but of a far less
attractive countenance, is a type of the lusts of the flesh, yet
TOKCELLO — TROVASO. 375
there is nothing gross or immodest in her dress or gesture.
She appears to have been baffled, and for the present to have
given up addressing the saint: she lays one hand upon her
breast, and might be taken for a very respectable person, but
that there are flames playing about her loins. A recumbent
figure on the ground is of less intelligible character, but may
perhaps be meant for Indolence; at all events, he has torn the
saint's book to pieces. I forgot to note, that under the figure
representing Avarice, there is a creature like a pig; whether
actual pig or not is unascertainable, for the church is dark,
the little light that comes on the picture falls on it the wrong
way, and one third of the lower part of it is hidden by a white
case, containing a modern daub, lately painted by way of an
altar piece; the meaning, as well as the merit, of the grand
old picture being now far beyond the comprehension both of
priests and people.
2. The Last Supper. (On the left-hand side of the Chapel
of the Sacrament. ) A picture which has been through the
hands of the Academy, and is therefore now hardly worth
notice. Its conception seems always to have been vulgar, and
far below Tintoret's usual standard; there is singular baseness
in the circumstance, that one of the near Apostles, while all
the others are, as usual, intent upon Christ's words, " One of
you shall betray me," is going to help himself to wine out of
a bottle which stands behind him. In so doing he stoops to-
wards the table, the flask being on the floor. If intended for
the action of Judas at this moment, there is the painter's
usual originality in the thought; but it seems to me rather
done to obtain variation of posture, in bringing the red dress
into strong contrast with the tablecloth. The color has once
been fine, and there are fragments of good painting still left;
but the light does not permit these to be seen, and there is too
much perfect work of the master's in Venice, to permit us to
spend time on retouched remnants. The picture is only
worth mentioning, because it is ignorantly and ridiculously
referred to by Kugler as characteristic of Tintoret.
376 VENETIAN INDEX.
V
Vittor
VITALI, CHURCH OF ST. Said to contain a picture by
Carpaccio, over the high altar : otherwise of no importance.
VOLTO SANTO, CHURCH OF THE. An interesting but desecrated
ruin of the fourteenth century; fine in style. Its roof retains
some fresco coloring, but, as far as I recollect, of later date
than the architecture.
Z
ZACCARIA, CHURCH OF ST. Early Renaissance, and fine of its
kind; a Gothic chapel attached to it is of great beauty. It
contains the best John Bellini in Venice, after that of San
G. Grisostomo, " The Virgin, with Four Saints;" and is said
to contain another John Bellini and a Tintoret, neither of
which I have seen.
ZITELLE, CHURCH OF THE. Of no importance.
ZOBENIGO, CHURCH OF SANTA MARIA, III. 124. It contains
one valuable Tintoret, namely:
Christ with Sta. Justina and St. Augustin. (Over the
third altar on the south side of the nave. ) A picture of small
size, and upright, about ten feet by eight. Christ appears to
be descending out of the clouds between the two saints, who
are both kneeling on the sea shore. It is a Venetian sea,
breaking on a flat beach, like the Lido, with a scarlet galley in
the middle distance, of which the chief use is to unite the two
figures by a point of color. Both the saints are respectable
Venetians of the lower class, in homely dresses and with
homely faces. The whole picture is quietly painted, and
somewhat slightly; free from all extravagance, and displaying
little power except in the general truth or harmony of colors
so easily laid on. It is better preserved than usual, and worth
dwelling upon as an instance of the style of the master when
at rest.
PR 5250 .E91 v.6 SMC
Buskin, John,
[The works of John Ruskin]